Fort Apache

CHAPTER 52

One second Dixon was cursing himself for not making the rendezvous here, for not finding a way to get the radio working, for sending the commandos to their deaths. The next second, Dixon was throwing himself downwards. A shriek from far above vibrated at the back of his head. The jolt didn’t register consciously until after he hit the ground.

Dixon landed on the sergeant as the first of the F-111’s Paveways hit the hill beyond them. The ground shook and then seemed to slide away, the two-thousand-pound bombs acting like God’s foot, smashing and grinding the Iraqi hilltop beneath its heel. Debris percolated through the air, small bits of rock and sand propelled like the exploding steel case of a hand grenade. To Dixon it sounded as if the air were on fire.

Even though they were some distance from the target and had a hillside between them and the explosion, Dixon was covered with grit when the tremors stopped. His eyes burned when he tried to open them. He put his fingers into his mouth and tasted sandpaper. There was no moisture, nothing to help clear his eyes; he rubbed them but the burning felt even worse.

Blind, he fumbled for his canteen and managed to get some water on his hand. It was so cold it stung; he rubbed it onto his face, and then splashed the canteen over his eyes. Finally, the crap cleared out and he could see again.

He checked Winston. The sergeant was still breathing, alive.

Dixon sat back against the rocks. He heard the whine of helicopters and Hogs in the distance, or thought he did. He waited for either the helicopters or the A-10s, but the sky remained empty. After a while, he couldn’t even be sure he’d heard anything. The desert had a certain hum to it, a way of being quiet that was not quite silent. That was the only sound he heard.

He decided to scout the other hillside, see what the bombs had done. As he got up and stretched some of the cold from his muscles, Winston snuffled below him, alive but oblivious.

There had been days with his mother when he waited for hours, thinking she’d open her eyes— or, more likely, die. This was different, he told himself; Winston was going to make it.

Assuming Dixon figured out how to get help. He leaned back down, making sure the blankets were wrapped tightly. Then he took a few steps away, looking carefully to make sure the position was completely hidden before tracking across the ledge and down to the road.

The door to the bunker was still intact. That surprised him a little; he thought the force of the explosion would have blown it open. As he walked up the roadway, giving the mines a wide berth, he saw a huge hunk of rock had been taken out of the side of the hill. A pile of boulders lay on the ground. Dixon guessed that the damage had been caused by several laser-guided Paveways, probably two-thousand-pounders. He began climbing the debris pile, wondering what he would see.

He was nearly to the top when he realized that any containers holding chemicals or biological agents might have been ruptured by the blast. Which meant that the dust he was climbing through could be poisonous.

There was no sense stopping— he was probably contaminated by now anyway. If that was the case, he might just as well see what was going to kill him.

Even so, Dixon went up the rest of the way more slowly, using the M-16 as a balancing rod so he didn’t have to stoop down and actually touch the dirt with his bare hands. Two feet from the lip of the crater, the rocks began to slide; he nearly lost his balance sidestepping it and then fell face-first against the hill.

He pulled himself up through the sand and small stones to peer over the edge. He held the night viewer close to his eyes, expecting to see a smoky hole and, the way his luck had run, ruptured barrels of green and purple crud oozing with instant death.

But he saw nothing. The crater was filled with dirt, sand and stones.

Dixon nearly threw down the viewer in disbelief. He clambered over the side of the crater and slid down, expecting at any second to fall through into the Iraqi shelter.

He didn’t. The bombs had torn the hell out of the rocks. The pipe and its shaft were gone. But the crater surface was packed harder than a runway built to handle a wing of B-52Gs. The bunker lay below, bored into the rock at the base and protected by seventy-five yards or more of solid stone.

Dixon found a shorter way back to the sergeant, walking up the side of the crater and across a long, narrow ledge, through a crevice, and finally up a steep hill that brought him just behind the position. He was not particularly careful as he walked, letting his gun hang from his shoulder and kicking small rocks indiscriminately.

He could hear the sergeant’s labored breaths as he climbed the hill. They were eerily like his mother’s toward the end.

He checked him. Winston hadn’t moved. It occurred to Dixon that he should have left him with a gun, even though the trooper was probably now well beyond using it.

It would be more a respect kind of thing. Like the nurse who put the lipstick on his mom’s lips the very last night. He’d always remember that.

Carefully, Dixon leaned down and took Winston’s Beretta out. He started to put it in the sergeant’s hand, but thought better of that— some sort of muscle contraction might make him pull the trigger. Instead he set it down within easy reach, as if the sergeant had just nodded off for the night. Then he packed the blankets back around him.

The question was: What should he do next? Wait to be rescued?

Only choice. Most likely that meant waiting until nightfall.

They could do it. Winston wasn’t going anywhere. The only thing Dixon had to worry about was boredom.

The Iraqis might come to check out their bunker. That was fine, as long as they stayed tight. There was no way to see it from the road in front of the door.

He took the binoculars as well as the NOD and climbed a few feet up the hill where he had watched the battle earlier. At full magnification, he could see a wrecked APC and maybe a truck; much of the battlefield was blocked off by the terrain. He found an easy way to the top of the rocks and used the binoculars, focusing first on the area to the east of the tiny plateau they’d watched the road from. He saw was an Iraqi APC, blown half apart. The back end looked like a paper shopping bag that had been twisted into a small knot; he stared at the jumbled shape next to it, wondering if it was a rock or melted metal, before realizing it was a body. A tank, its turret cocked to one side, sat a few yards away. Its gun barrel had snapped in two, and the jagged end now pointed like a stubby finger toward the rest of the battlefield.

A hundred yards away sat an American helicopter. It looked untouched — in fact, it looked like it was about to take off. But it remained perfectly still.

Then he saw a body nearby, dressed in the brown camo the commandos all wore.

One of his friends was dead. He cursed and moved his viewer around, examining the area near the aircraft, expecting to see other bodies, but finding none. He swept back around to the body, his eyes drawn to it by some inexplicable force; Dixon found himself staring at the fallen soldier, wondering who it was, thinking that the shape of the body looked like Leteri, though he couldn’t be sure. He stared, and wondered if he should go and bury the body. He stared, and wondered if the man had been in a lot of pain as he died.

He stared, and then the body moved, twisting and raising its his head. The man looked directly at him, and for a short second his face was clear in the viewer.

It was Leteri.

In the next instant, Dixon found himself running down the hill toward the highway, determined to rescue him.

CHAPTER 53

The flaps on the A-10A snapped tight at twenty degrees as Doberman slowed to a figurative crawl above the tarmac at Al Jouf. The Hog nudged into her landing gently, rolling along the runway like a Mercedes out for a Sunday spin. Doberman trundled quickly toward the repitting area, determined to rearm and refuel in record time so he could return north. But even as the engines wound down he could see that wasn’t going to happen; a special ops officer was waiting to take him and A-Bomb directly to Colonel Klee for a personal debriefing.

Not to mention butt-chewing, since the Hog pilots had “forgotten” to clear their flight nor with him.

“You pull a stunt like that again, Glenon, and I don’t care what Knowlington thinks of you, your next post is Alaska. Yeah, you’re right,” continued the colonel as Doberman tried to object, “you saved their butts. Damn straight. You were in the right place at the right time, and that’s your job. You were fucking lucky big time. You pull that crap again and you’re in shit-ass trouble for the rest of your career. You won’t have a career except replacing toilet paper in johns across Antarctica. You got that?”

Doberman had expected some grief. Even so, it was a struggle to corral his anger. “Yeah,” he spat.

“Tell me what you saw on the ground.”

The colonel didn’t even nod as Doberman spoke. While Doberman’s account was in the best Hog tradition— brief and to the point, without taking credit for anything he wasn’t absolutely positive about— it should still have been obvious that they had saved the day. But Klee didn’t so much as hint ataboy. He told them that Hawkins, the captain in charge of Fort Apache, felt the helo left at the ambush site was worth retrieving. The colonel began peppering them with skeptical questions. Doberman felt his anger stoking up again. He half-expected to be asked why he hadn’t tossed down a tow-rope and hauled the damn thing back home.

“Keep yourselves available,” said the colonel.

“Excuse me, Colonel,” said Doberman. “We’d like to get back in the air right away. The planes’ll be rearmed and gassed by now.”

“See, our buddy’s still on the ground back there,” added A-Bomb. “We don’t want him having all the fun.”

“You’re to stay here until I tell you to fly. That’s an order.”

Only A-Bomb’s tug kept Doberman from exploding.

“We saved their fucking butts,” he complained to A-Bomb outside. “His whole fucking operation would be smoke right now if it wasn’t for us. Fuck him.”

“Your misinterpreting him. It’s a Special Ops thing,” said A-Bomb. “Like tough love. The way he looks at it, he was kissing our butts.”

“Yeah, well, he can fuck himself. If it wasn’t Dixon up there, I swear to God, I’d fucking punch somebody out right now. Let them throw me in jail or where ever the hell they want. Shit. I have a half a mind to tell them to screw off and just jump in the plane. I’ll bring the kid back if I have to land on the goddamn roadway and carry him on the wings. What the hell are you laughing at?”

“Man, your ears turn bright red when you get mad. You want to go find a card game?” A-Bomb asked.

“Screw yourself,” said Doberman, storming toward the planes.

Doberman was still fairly ballistic when he reached the pitting area, where the Hogs were being presided over by Rosen and the rest of the Devil Squadron crew dogs. Doberman waved at the crew members, then sat sullenly on a small folding chair near the “dragon” used to reload the Warthog’s cannon.

“Whose cat did you run over?” asked Rosen.

“Excuse me?”

“You in trouble, sir?”

Doberman shook his head.

“You want some coffee, Captain?” she asked.

Rosen had a roundish face and a few freckles, a nose that seemed to lean slightly, as if it had been broken long ago in a fight. Her impish grin revealed perfect teeth, and her eyes changed color in the light, sparking green from light brown.

“Yeah,” he said.

Rosen disappeared for a moment, returning with a thermos, two cups and a small campaign chair.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked, unfolding the chair.

“Go ahead. I’m sorry if I barked.”

“Oh, you didn’t bark at all,” she said, pouring him a coffee. She started to hand it to him and then stopped. “Oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, if you’re going to fly again— ”

“Of course I’m going to fly again. Don’t worry about it.” He reached and took the cup. “Hey, don’t worry about it. My bladder’s not that small.”

“Colonel was peed, huh?”

“Fucking asshole prick.”

Rosen nodded. “Colonel Knowlington’ll back you up.”

“Yeah. If I need it.”

“Damn straight. He’s very fair.”

She sounded like she meant to add, “for an officer,” but said nothing else. Doberman couldn’t help but look at her breasts. They were well hidden beneath her shirt, and yet they seemed inviting.

She seemed inviting. Not in a sexual way, in a good-comrade, fellow-squadron-mate, crew chief kind of way.

Damn.

“How’s Lieutenant Dixon?” Rosen asked.

Doberman shrugged. “He missed the pickup. He’s still on Sugar Mountain. That’s the quarry where the F-111 hit.”

“He missed it?”

“He decided to stay back with a wounded soldier.”

“Wow.”

“Just like Dixon, huh? We’ll get him. I’m going to fucking get him. They’re working up something now.”

Rosen looked worried.

“We can handle it,” Doberman told her.

“Excuse me, Captain,” she said, tossing her coffee onto the ground. “I have to go check on something.”

She had a strained expression on her face, as if someone had punched her in the gut. She got up from the seat and quickly began trotting in the direction of the crew tents, probably to a bathroom, Doberman thought. Damn food was screwing up everybody’s stomach.

CHAPTER 54

From Sugar Mountain, it had seemed as if the entire Iraqi force had been wiped out, but even before he got within a mile of the battlefield Dixon realized that wasn’t true. He heard an engine turn over several times, cough and die out; then he heard voices, a strange cacophony he assumed must be Arabic, or whatever the Iraqis spoke. He began tacking south, arranging the landscape in his head as he tried to remember not only what he had seen from the mountain but what he remembered from the day before. The sun was still just below the horizon, but there was more than enough light to see without using the NOD. He left the roadway and headed for the stream the team had followed the day before, stopping every so often to try and see where the Iraqis were. The helicopter— not yet visible— should lie about a mile northeast, beyond some of the empty ditches.

He had gone about a quarter of a mile along the stream when the truck engine kicked and caught in the distance, roaring steadily this time. Dixon dropped to one knee, scanning with the viewer in the direction of the noise. A broken tank lay near the western edge of the small plateau. He couldn’t see anything else.

Dixon moved a few hundred yards further east. Stopping, he saw figures moving beyond the shell of another wrecked vehicle. A few yards further and he had several more wrecks in view. Finally, he saw what must be the truck, back near the road. He was three-quarters of a mile from it, about ten degrees to the west of due south. Dixon turned carefully and scanned the area where he thought the helicopter should be; he finally found it further to his left than he thought, but much closer, only a few hundred yards away. The rotor and the very top of the motor housing were the only parts visible because of the topography.

He scanned around in a complete circle. Nothing else was moving. Stooping, he retreated further south before turning back in the direction of the helicopter and Leteri.

He began considering contingencies. If the Iraqis put up a flare, what would he do?

Throw himself face first on the ground, push up his M-16 and kill them all.

Yeah, right. He would keep his head. Firing first would give his position away. More than likely they wouldn’t even know he was there. Even if they did, the flare wouldn’t necessarily give him away.

He would hit the ground and wait for them to make the first move. And the second. Firing his weapon would be a last resort.

Dixon walked and trotted toward the helicopter, going slightly uphill, for what seemed like an eternity— though by his watch it was barely ten minutes. He crossed a dry irrigation ditch, climbed back up and finally had the helicopter in good view. But now he couldn’t see the Iraqis or the truck, though he heard its motor still coughing away.

The Little Bird looked unharmed, sitting as if it were waiting for its pilot to hop in. Even if it were in perfect working condition, it wouldn’t make any difference to him — the only thing he knew about flying a helicopter was that it was a lot different than flying a plane.

Maybe he ought to blow it up, to keep the Iraqis from getting it.

Right.

So where the hell was Leteri? Dixon scanned down from the helo’s cockpit, in front and around the aircraft and then behind it, without seeing him. He took a few steps to his right and looked again. He was now less than twenty yards away, and could see fairly well without the NOD. He used the binoculars but still couldn’t pick out Leteri.

Shit. Had he even been there at all?

Dixon took another step, still scanning, hoping the whole thing hadn’t been a hallucination. As he took a third step, he heard the truck motor cut off. He ducked instinctually, catching a shadow he hadn’t noticed before on his left and to the north across another ditch. He brought the NOD to his eyes slowly and saw there were four Iraqis there, two pointing their weapons in his general direction.

They hadn’t seen him, but if he stayed here they would. Dixon began moving slowly, as quietly as possible, hoping to get on the other side of the helicopter, which he figured was what they were interested in. He took three steps and tripped, skidding face-first down the ditch, which he hadn’t realized was so close. He bounced against the stones and dust of the dry creek bed, lost his gun, and found it again as he threw himself against the bottom.

The amazing thing was, the Iraqis didn’t start shooting.

The NOD and the binoculars had fallen somewhere along the way. Dixon left them, crawling and then walking sideways along the ditch, which came halfway to his chest. The enemy soldiers hadn’t reacted in any way that he could tell. When the tail end of the AH-6G hulked about twenty yards away, Dixon stopped and rested on his haunches, trying to get his eyes to see more and his heart to stop pounding so he could hear if the soldiers were following him.

The Iraqi truck started up again, revving in the distance, smoother now. It roared, then backed off, then started revving wildly; as if it were stuck in the sand. He hoped that the men he had seen had gone back to help get it free.

But where the hell was Leteri? Assuming he hadn’t been hallucinating, the trooper must have heard the Iraqis playing with their truck earlier and taken cover. He couldn’t have gone all that far; it was just a question of finding him.

The truck screeched and ran steady. It sounded as if it were coming toward him.

Dixon gripped the M-16 tightly and continued along the dried streambed. It got progressively deeper and wider, angling away from the helicopter and battlefield. Debris had been piled in several spots; finally he moved around one and saw a shadow ahead. It moved and realized it was a man.

“I figured you had to be around here somewhere, Joey,” he said.

The man answered with an incomprehensible shout in a language that definitely wasn’t English.

CHAPTER 55

There was a moment when he saw him clearly; saw the confusion, the question and the plea, the hope, dreams, small comforts and desperate wishes welling in the man’s eyes. The next second Dixon had pulled the M-16’s trigger, holding it there long enough for the three rounds to smoke through the Iraqi soldier’s stomach and chest.

The 5.56 mm slugs streaked through his vital organs so quickly that it took a moment for the blood to actually flood into the holes they had made. The man stumbled back, dropping his Kalishnikov, aware he was going to die, aware of it long enough to begin to shake his head.

Dixon caught his breath somewhere down around his stomach. His legs began to buckle, and only the sound of Iraqis shouting behind him kept him from collapsing. He threw himself on the side of the ditch, waiting for something to shoot at. At the top edge of the dry creek a shadow appeared; a leg that looked like a thick cornstalk. He pushed the trigger of his M-16. The man went down, but Dixon realized he had actually missed, and now he had to move, and quickly— the creek side began boiling with lead.

He threw himself back and ran to his right, nearly tripping over the Iraqi he had killed. As his foot kicked the man’s rifle, he heard a fresh burst of machine-gun fire behind him. Dixon fell against the ground. He crawled a few feet; realizing the shooting had stopped, he hauled himself up the embankment, rolling onto the nearly flat ground behind it.

As he tried to figure out where his enemies were, they did him a favor, firing off a flare from behind the truck. He froze as it ignited; willing his body to become part of the dirt he was splayed against.

The flare began dropping above and behind the closest Iraqis. It seemed designed to help Dixon instead of them, though of course the Iraqis couldn’t have known where he was, nor that they were facing only one man and not an entire platoon. Eight or nine shadows moved forward across the open ground toward the creek bed where he’d killed the first soldier. They moved at glacier speed, obviously unsure of their enemy.

He edged backwards, but dared not move too quickly or much further. When they were at the lip of the dry creek, the Iraqis split into two groups. One held their ground; the others moved off to his left, probably intending to roll up the flank of the creek bed. He guessed they thought he was hiding in one of the piles of debris.

The men on the other side of the creek bed were all fairly close together. He could nail them and then the ones in the creek itself with the M-16s grenade launcher.

Assuming he could figure out how to fire the damn thing.

He knew how to do it. It was easy, like a shotgun.

Dixon pumped and loaded, pushed his right knee down into the dirt to brace himself and then squeezed his finger against the launcher’s thin metal trigger. As he did, the gun rammed into his shoulder; he threw as much of his weight against it as he could, awkwardly dancing the weapon in a half-pirouette that would have been comical under other circumstances. The whishing sound of the grenade zipping through the air was followed by a deep, authoritative bang; he had missed wildly, firing at least a hundred yards beyond and well to the east of his enemies.

The Iraqis responded with equally misplaced shots, firing not in his direction but towards the explosion. He cocked again, pointing the barrel eastward into the creek this time.

As he was about to pull the trigger, something moved to his right. He swung around to nail it, stopping his finger only at the last second.

“Lieutenant, shit. What the hell are you doing here?” said Leteri, hunkering toward him.

“I almost put a grenade right through you.”

“Nah, I saw your first shot. You would have missed by a mile,” he said. “You don’t mind if I take a whack at that, do you?”

Dixon quickly traded for Leteri’s gun, an H&K MP-5. A fresh flare arced into the air from this distance, igniting overhead just as Leteri launched the grenade into the soldiers on the other side of the ditch. The corporal pumped a fresh one into the chamber and let it fly into the far end of the creek itself.

Dixon leaped to his feet. The Iraqi truck was about a hundred yards away, heading in their direction with troops behind it and its lights on. He had a clear shot at its front end; he nailed the trigger on the submachine-gun straight back, running half the clip through the front of the truck. He pushed the barrel upwards, working his aim with his body as if he were firing the cannon in the Hog, smashing the radiator and the hood and then the glass. He stopped firing, saw something move to the left of the truck and emptied the rest of the clip at it.

He ducked down as he ejected, reaching to his pocket to reload, forgetting that he had only M-16 cartridges in his pockets now.

“They’re out of ammo,” said Leteri.

“What?”

“They just wasted their clips.”

“They were firing?”

“The whole time,” said the sergeant, passing him a pair of MP-5’s long clips. “Now would be a good time for a strategic retreat.”

“Okay,” said Dixon. He jumped up.

“Afraid I can’t go very fast,” said Leteri, grabbing him. He pointed to his side, caked with a black substance that looked like tar. There was a second blotch on his leg. “My head hurts, too.”

“Lean on my shoulder,” Dixon told him. “Wait— maybe we ought to blow up the helicopter first. You got more grenades in that thing?”

“Let’s not fuck around.”

Dixon hesitated for another second. He thought he heard something move on the other side of the creek. That cinched it — he squatted down, his back to Leteri. “Get on. Let’s go.”

Leteri started to protest, but before he finished, Dixon has him on his back.

“Just hang on,” he said, rising. “And try not to bleed on my uniform. I had it dry-cleaned yesterday.”

“In that case I’ll puke on you, too,” said Leteri, as Dixon waddled away from the battlefield.

CHAPTER 56

Skull wasn’t terribly surprised to find Mongoose in Cineplex, even though it was relatively early. Even though there was no one else in the squadron room, he decided to talk to him down the hall in his office. Mongoose’s grin practically lit the way.

“So?” asked the major as Skull closed the door.

“Sit down and relax.”

“Colonel —”

“I wanted to ask you something first.”

Mongoose’s expression quickly changed. He was once more the solid-faced, on-guard DO who had done so much of Knowlington’s work during the first weeks of the squadron’s creation and deployment.

“What’s your wife think of you staying here?” Skull asked him.

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“She thinks it’s great.”

“You haven’t told her, have you?”

“She’ll go along with what I think is right.”

Skull pushed his fingers along his left ear, then around to his neck. He still hadn’t made up his mind. It was going to take a lot to keep the major with the squadron, though he had no doubt he could pull the strings.

What he doubted was whether it was the right thing to do. And he felt awkward about asking; he’d never been good at the personal questions, even when it was his job to ask them.

“Why don’t you want to go back?” he asked. “Are you afraid?”

“I can’t really explain it,” said Mongoose.

“Don’t you love your kid? I’m not trying to insult you, ‘Goose. But what you’re asking— it’s unusual.”

“I love my wife and my son. Shit, he was just born. Of course I love him. And I want to see him, too. But not yet. Not until this is over.”

There was pain on the major’s face; Knowlington saw that he hadn’t quite figured it out either.

“I can’t explain it,” said Mongoose. “They’re all I’ve thought about since I’ve been here. But to go to them now, it feels wrong. It feels like I’m running away when I have a hell of a lot more to do.”

“It’s not your fault you got shot down. I’m serious.”

“I know. Look, I ought to stay until this thing is over. How long can it last?”

Under other circumstances, Knowlington would have laughed for quite a while. Instead, he only said, “We thought that about Vietnam, too.”

“This isn’t then.”

“I know. Thank God.”

It wasn’t Vietnam, truly. Knowlington couldn’t think of anything else to say, and Mongoose had obviously told him as much as he would— and maybe as much as he could.

“What about it?” the major asked finally.

“If you want to stay with the squadron, here, doing what you can, I don’t see that I can really deny that request,” said Knowlington slowly. “In a lot of ways, I owe it to you. But I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do, and not a little string pulling. And you can expect half-a-million people to show up on your doorstep with questions.”

“I can handle them.”

Skull scratched his chin. “I have to be honest with you, ‘Goose, I’m not exactly sure I’m making the right decision here.”

“You are,” said the major. And with that, he got up and practically ran from the office, as happy as Knowlington had ever seen him.

CHAPTER 57

The commandos owned the night, but the day belonged to the Iraqis. Any of a thousand things might give them away— a passing Bedouin, a flyover by an Iraqi plane. They had lookouts covering the approaches and the highway under surveillance for nearly twenty miles, but the general plan for dealing with the day was to lay low, hiding and sleeping as much as possible.

But Hawkins wasn’t about to sleep. Nor did he think about the danger they were in, or his injuries. He was determined to get back the helicopter and the men he’d left behind. He started working out a plan as soon as his AH-6G, now officially dubbed Apache One, touched down on the weathered concrete.

Apache One had been hit in several places, including its fuel tank; while they were lucky that the bullet or shrapnel hadn’t ignited the fuel, the damage itself was minimal and easily repaired. More serious were the hits the electronics and rear rotor assembly had taken. His men could patch a fuel tank and bang out damaged metal under the direction of their injured mechanic, but they didn’t know very much about electronics or propulsion systems. The mechanic’s splints made it tough for him to inspect, let alone repair, the damage. He was a gamer, but he didn’t look in particularly good shape, clearly exhausted after only a half hour’s work.

It would be a bitch for him to get the downed chopper working if there was a serious problem with it. And if something went wrong with Apache One on the way, they would be truly fucked.

The colonel had promised at least two more technicians; Hawkins decided to open the line to Al Jouf and find out if they were coming. He gave Colonel Klee the good news first— the Blue and Green teams had reported in; two Scud erectors and missiles had been smashed overnight.

“So how are we getting our helo back?” said the colonel.

“We’ll get it,” said Hawkins. “Am I getting those mechanics?”

“You have a runway yet?”

“In two hours, I’ll have fifteen hundred feet.”

“Too short.”

“Can you send a Pave Low?”

“Not this morning, no way. Maybe tonight or tomorrow night, if then.”

“Too long,” said Hawkins. “If you have the mechanics, parachute them in.”

“In daylight?”

“I’ll take the risk,” said Hawkins. “I’m not sure about getting the helo fixed without them.”

“It’s not yours to take. I’m also not crazy about breaking someone else’s leg.”

“Do a tandem if they’re not jump-qualified.”

“Easier said than done.”

“But you do have the mechanics?”

“I said I’m working on it.”

Hawkins frowned but said nothing. The colonel clearly didn’t have anyone.

“We should have a BDA report on the mountain bunker in an hour or. I’ll get back to you. Sit tight until I do.”

CHAPTER 58

Dixon carried Leteri a few hundred yards until they were sure they weren’t being followed. Leteri managed to do fairly well the rest of the way on his own, though they had to stop a dozen times. The last time Dixon didn’t think he’d be able to get going again; it was the wounded Leteri who actually pulled him to his feet and gave him a push to help him along.

Dixon told Leteri about the bombing raid. Leteri told him about the action at the Cornfield. An explosion, probably a mortar shell, had knocked the sergeant unconscious. He had a hazy memory of the Hogs attacking and the second chopper appearing, but he had blacked out again in there somewhere. When he finally regained his senses he was near the downed Little Bird. He had no idea how he’d managed to drag himself there, since it was quite some distance from where he’d been hit. When he heard the Iraqis fiddling with the truck, he went and hid in the creek. He had heard Dixon challenge the Iraqi soldier.

“I didn’t challenge him,” Dixon said. “Hell, I almost shook his hand, thinking he was you.”

“Then you killed him.”

“Yeah.”

Leteri paused. “First time?”

For a moment Dixon didn’t answer. “Well, I got that helicopter when the air war started. Those guys probably died, too. Except, you know, I didn’t think about it. I was flying. I never really saw them. Not as people.”

“First time for me today, too,” said Leteri quietly.

Dixon thought about the look in the man’s face for only a second, then banished it, concentrating on keeping his momentum up. He felt as if a fire had started in the back of his head; it burned there to keep him going. His hunger was gone and he was beyond feeling numb or tired. His gut had grown raw with the will of survival.

“How are we going to take that bunker out if the bombs didn’t?” Leteri asked as they got closer.

“I don’t know that we are.”

“We have to somehow.”

“Yeah.” Dixon walked silently. They were about a quarter of a mile from the road, on the opposite side from Sugar Mountain. He was more worried about traffic finding them than doing anything about the shelter. There was plenty of light and they had little cover on this side of the road.

“What do you think?” Leteri asked. “The grenade launcher?”

“Grenade’s not going through that door. Turk said the C-4 wouldn’t even take it out. Besides, we got other problems.”

“Captain’ll come for us, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know Hawkins. He won’t give up. And neither will our colonel. He’s a prick, but he’s a good prick.”

About a half mile from the quarry, they rested at a small group of rocks a few yards from the highway. Dixon paused for only a second, rocking his body back and forth.

“I’m going to go scout the quarry,” he told Leteri. “There’s a back way up to the sergeant a few yards ahead. I’ll make sure it’s clear.”

“I’m gonna come,” said Leteri. “My side doesn’t hurt as much as it did.”

“Better to hang here,” Dixon told him. “There’s a hell of a lot of climbing this way, and if you go the other way, you’ll be in full view of anything that comes down the road.”

“I’ll be all right.”

Dixon examined the H&K. The fire in his head was burning steadily now; his eyes had narrowed their focus the way they did in the last few seconds on a bomb run in a Hog. “You stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back. Take the morphine if the pain gets too much.”

Without waiting for Leteri to answer, Dixon began trotting toward the highway, clutching the small submachine gun close to his side. The sun had started to warm the air. For a second, he felt as if he were running along the beach at his town lake, trotting for an ice cream or maybe back to the car for the stereo.

Then he heard the rattle of a truck. He dashed across the highway and headed for the back of the hill where he’d left Sergeant Winston. As he did, a small pickup truck crowded with soldiers appeared from the direction of Sugar Mountain, kicking up dust and skidding to a stop across the middle of the road. Dixon threw himself face first behind the rocks, his heart lost somewhere in the dirt as the soldiers jumped out and took up positions all along the highway, less than ten yards away.

CHAPTER 59

Even though the tent was empty, it was hardly private; anyone could walk in at any time. And yet she couldn’t control herself. For her entire military service, Rebecca A. Rosen she had steeled herself against exactly this open vulnerability and nakedness. But she was helpless now, sitting on the edge of the cot and shaking like a windup toy.

There were no tears at least, or hardly any. But the shaking was nearly as bad. It wasn’t as if there was anything between her and Lieutenant Dixon, anything more than a few kisses stolen at random moments. He might not even remember who she was.

That was nonsense. Of course he did. But he wouldn’t think anything of it, or at least he would be surprised, maybe shocked, to see her like this.

And yet she couldn’t stop.

I’m a useless blob, she told herself. She pulled her arms across her chest Stop. This wasn’t helping him. It wasn’t helping anyone.

But she kept shaking until she managed to think about the capo di capo.

That brought her back to center. Sergeant Clyston was the closest thing to a father she’d ever had. He was closer to her than her mother, even.

Rosen saw Clyston’s face now in the tent, the way he would cock his head at her and push his lower lip tight against the top. “F-ing hell,” he’d say. “Rosen, get your butt in gear and see what needs to be done,” he say.

“Yes, Sergeant. Right away, Sergeant,” she’d say.

And so she did. She pushed her arms down to her side and took a huge breath, ending the shaking for good. Then she took out a small makeup mirror and checked her eyes and face.

She took another breath and got off the cot.

The two Devil Squadron Hogs— her Hogs— were ready to go. But there would be something else for her and her men to do, plenty. And in the meantime, she’d try to come up with something to wring more time on station for the Hogs. Tinman might have something; he was always good for something that had worked in the Dark Ages before screwdrivers were invented.

Actually, there was an even simpler solution: The A-10As had three hard-points plumed for external fuel tanks. While the idea of using them to extend range had been rejected for several reasons at different points, it might be worth reconsidering, assuming they could get a few tanks out here. Rosen decided to check with Sergeant Clyston about it before going to Doberman. No use making a pitch for something she couldn’t do. She headed for the command bunker, hoping that one of the colonel’s men could set something up for her.

She found the colonel himself, frowning at an Army captain. Even though the two men were still talking, the colonel motioned her forward.

“Sergeant?” he said.

“Sir, begging your pardon, I was wondering if we could arrange a landline back to my chief. I, we, I’m sorry to bother you with this but I was hoping to squeeze more time on station out of the Hogs and wanted to get his ideas, sir. He had mentioned a modification that conceivably could do the trick, sir, and I’d like to spec it out with him.”

Rosen had thrown more than the mandatory number of “sirs” in the air, and the colonel seemed at least partly amused.

“You have to run down Major Mosely,” he told her. “He’ll set you up. Sergeant, let me ask you something— any of your crew know anything about helicopter electronics?”

“What electronics?”

The Army captain gave the colonel a look Rosen knew all too well — it meant, see what happens when you ask a girl a serious question?

She stifled her urge to forearm the bastard. “Sir, I’ve worked on the Pave Low systems, if that’s what you have in mind,” Rosen said, her eyes fixed on the idiot captain. “I’ve served as an instructor.”

“What do you know about AH-6Gs?” asked the colonel.

“Based on the McDonnell Douglas 500M, they’re powered by Alison gas turbines. The electronics suite is contemporary.”

“Contemporary?” said the captain.

“It will do. It’s Army,” she shrugged. “You can’t expect perfection. The power plant’s actually a nice piece of machinery, though.”

The captain started to say something that would undoubtedly have not been very pleasant, but the colonel stopped him. She could tell that he was the sort of officer who didn’t smile much; nonetheless, he had the beginnings of a grin on his face.

“You know a lot about that aircraft?” the colonel asked.

“A fair amount, sir. It’s not my specialty.”

“You think you could help get one of those things in the air?” the colonel asked her.

“Sir, I’ll bust my butt doing anything you want.”

“That’s not the question, Sergeant. Can you fix helicopters?”

“If there’s a problem with the electronics I can take a shot at it. I don’t know much about the weapons suite at all. That’s army, and I’m not meaning that disrespectfully. As far as the rest, I helped overhaul Kawasaki license-built models in Japan. I can fix the engine, that’s nothing. Engines were where I started, and like I say, that’s a nice piece of work, that one.”

The colonel nodded.

“So where is it?” Rosen asked.

“Two hundred and fifty miles north of here,” said the captain with a snide grin. “In Iraq.”

“All right— Apache,” she said, making a fist and swinging it in the air. “Let’s go!”

The captain had undoubtedly expected her to faint if not burst into tears. But even the colonel was surprised by her reaction.

“Sergeant, did you understand what the captain just said?” he asked.

“Oh, he’s just an asshole who thinks women don’t belong in the service,” she said. “Don’t worry about him. He probably couldn’t fix a flat tire. When am I leaving?”

CHAPTER 60

Doberman tried to work off his frustration by taking a walk around the base, but that was about as effective as using gasoline to douse a fire. When he realized he was starting to rant at an F-16 that was landing with battle damage for no other reason than the fact that it was a pointy-nose fast-jet, he decided to take a different tack and went over to the Special Ops mess area.

Masters of the fine art of combat supply, the troopers had laid out an extensive breakfast spread that included fresh eggs and what at least smelled like fresh ham. Doberman helped himself to a bagel and pineapple jelly and then sat at a small table. He had managed only a single bite when the gaunt figure of Tinman appeared before him, wagging a finger.

“A caul isk signk,” said the crewman. His lips were bluish and his cheeks caved in; his white hair flared up as if an invisible wind blew through it. He looked like a portrait of the Ancient Mariner, tied to a lost ship’s bowsprit.

Make that, the Ancient Mechanic.

“A caul isk signk,” he repeated.

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Doberman.

“He’s telling you you were born with a caul,” said a Special Forces sergeant, coming over with a tray. The man, not quite as tall as Tinman but nearly as lean, smiled and said something to the Air Force technician. Tinman’s eyes widened and the two began a conversation that Doberman swore was encrypted with a 64-byte key.

“So what the hell are you two talking about?” Doberman finally asked.

The sergeant gave him an apologetic smile. “Like I said, he says you were born with a caul.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, for one thing, it means you fight demons. Well, you know.”

Tinman nodded approvingly.

“No, I don’t know,” said Doberman. “What the hell language are you talking with him?”

“It’s not really a language. Kind of a patois. Name’s Joe Kidrey. I’m from Louisiana. Bayou country. Backwoods, though, even for there.” The sergeant sat down across from Doberman.

“Is that where you’re from, Tinman?”

Doberman’s question drew an indecipherable response.

“He says not exactly. Apparently it’s a long story,” Kidrey said. “I assume you don’t want to hear it.”

“No. But what’s this caul all about?”

Kidrey scratched his eyebrow and gave Doberman an embarrassed smile. “It’s this birth membrane thing, comes out sometimes on a baby’s face when he’s born. My mom’s a midwife. I guess you see it every so often.”

“And I had one?”

The sergeant nodded.

“How the hell would he know?”

“Oh, the old-timers know.”

“What about you?”

Kidrey gave a half-shrug. “Sometimes there’s a birth mark.”

“I don’t have a birthmark.”

The sergeant did the shrug again. “Anyway, the old-timers, I guess the thing is in the old days it was rare to survive that, you know, at least without problems, so these myths built up. You ever hear of Santeria?”

“What are we talking about here, voodoo?”

Kidrey shook his head quickly, but not fast enough to keep the Tinman from launching into what even Doberman understood as an agitated denunciation.

“I’m sorry, relax, relax,” Doberman told him. “You’re going to have a heart attack. Shit.”

Kidrey said something and Tinman calmed down. The Special Forces sergeant gave the pilot a half wink, then turned back to the Ancient Mechanic and asked him a few more questions. Words flew back and forth, punctuated by nods and deep gestures. Doberman felt like he had stepped into a carnival sideshow.

“Now I’m not saying I believe any of this, you understand,” said Kidrey, turning back to Doberman. “But, did, uh, the sergeant here give you a cross or something?”

“Well, he gave it to my wingmate. I don’t believe in that superstitious crap.”

“Oh.”

Doberman didn’t like his tone, but before he could say anything Kidrey turned back to Tinman and resumed their coded conversation. It was amazing to him that someone as skilled as the Tinman— whose mechanical genius was obviously the only reason off-the-wall fuel drop worked— could believe in witchcraft.

Or whatever the hell they were “patoising” about.

Kidrey finally turned back to Doberman with an apologetic smile. “Thing is Captain, and like I say, I don’t necessarily believe this, okay? Some of the old-timers, they see the world as kind of two parts. There’s us, and then there’s this whole other thing, spirits you’d call it. A few people can go back and forth.”

“Back and forth, what?”

Kidrey shrugged. “It’s hard to explain, especially if, you know, you’re not one of them.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“Well.” Kidrey laughed. “I’m not saying it does.”

“But Tinman does.”

“See, the old-timers believe people with cauls are kind of special. They got the power. Like karma or something?”

Doberman nearly choked. “You’re talking about luck?”

“That’s not it,” said Kidrey, shaking his hand quickly. Tinman looked as if he was going to stoke up again, but the sergeant leaned back and laid his hand on Tinman’s arm, calming him. ”They think it’s power. Not luck. Definitely not luck.”

“And I got it?” Doberman asked incredulously.

“Oh, yeah, big time. See, stuff like that cross he gave you is supposed to focus it. The whole thing comes from Europe or Africa or somewhere. I haven’t a clue. The word my mom used means ‘nightwalker’ in kind of pig-French.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t use that other word.”

“What word?”

“The one you were going to use. The one that starts with a W.”

Doberman had, in fact, been going to ask if Kidrey’s mother was a witch. Instead, he glanced over at Tinman, then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “I don’t want to get Tinman all twisted up again, but you don’t believe in this bullshit, do you?”

“Well,” whispered the sergeant back, “I would say it’s kind of in the category of stuff that couldn’t hurt. You know, like throwing salt over your shoulder, lucky pennies, that kind of stuff. If you know what I mean.”

Doberman leaned back. The Tinman was nodding, a very satisfied look on his face.

The entire fucking world had gone nuts.

“Thing is, I have seen some stuff I can’t explain,” added Kidrey. “So you never know.”

The Tinman pointed his crooked finger at Doberman. His eyes grew large and his cheeks began to inflate. Undoubtedly a huge pronouncement was on the way. That or the geezer was going to have a heart attack, which would really screw them big-time.

“All right, all right, I’ll take the goddamn cross,” said Doberman. “Shit.”

The Tinman’s smile could have lit an airfield.

CHAPTER 61

As Wong had suspected, the bombs had not been sufficient to penetrate the bunker. He was annoyed though not surprised that his advice hadn’t been solicited on targeting; it had been his experience at Black Hole that no one there appreciated his abilities.

Be that as it may, he had a relatively straightforward solution— take out the doors, which he calculated could be done with as little as 130 kg of high explosive.

It was beyond the doors that things got complicated.

His experience with Russian sites that featured these door types told him that it led directly to a concrete-reinforced hallway precisely three meters long. At the end of the hallway— which were generally adapted from an existing mine shaft— there would be a stairwell at an exact ninety-degree angle. It would general contain twenty steps downward to the storage area in the direction of the passive ventilation pipe. From there any of three different configurations could be used. The result was the same, however— an isolated storage area.

He now tentatively identified the materials being placed there as biological, thanks to an admittedly third-hand description of a truck and single courier that had appeared at the facility. He hesitated drawing other conclusions from the absence of protective gear; the Iraqis had uniformly proven idiotic. Indeed, the incident could be viewed as a Rorschach.

“Which means what, exactly?” asked Colonel Klee, who had sat through the briefing with uncharacteristic patience.

“Which means that it means whatever the interpreter wants it to mean,” said Wong. “It’s open to many possibilities.”

“Like what?”

Wong sighed. It was always such a chore briefing people outside their area of specialty.

“It could be that they assume we would notice a large force and they want to remain inconspicuous. It could mean that they were delivering lunch or paperwork or perhaps orders to someone inside, though I assure you this is an unmanned facility. It could and most likely means that they are simply stupid.”

“There are definitely weapons there?”

“I didn’t say that. I said there is a strong possibility. There are only indications and inferences. If they respond to the bombing, that would be another strong indication.”

“You’re talking like a goddamn intelligence officer again, Wong. I don’t like it.”

“With all due respect, you asked for my opinion. As far as being an intelligence officers, let me remind you that I am attached to Admiral…”

“All right, I don’t want your goddamn Pentagon job classification again. How are we going to blow this thing up?”

“If we merely block the stairway with enough rocks we will accomplish the same thing,” said Wong. “And we can do so quite simply, though admittedly there will be a high coefficient of variables beyond skill involved.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I think he’s trying to say it’ll take some luck,” said Major Wilson.

It was the first time Wong had heard him say anything intelligent since they met, and he nodded before describing his plan. Wong’s preferred solution called for an F-117A Nighthawk flying a pair of Paveways through the doors. The difficulty for the Paveways was in the first shot; if it was off target, it could trigger a landslide which would effectively protect the interior from the second explosion. Unlike a crushing blow inside, exterior damage could be removed easily and would present only a nuisance. The warhead of the Paveways was actually a bit bigger than optimum, and not optimally shaped for this penetration, but the F-117s had a very limited choice of weapons if their stealth profile was to be maintained.

“What’s your less preferred way?” asked the colonel.

“A Maverick model G could pierce the door, if it hit precisely three-fourths of the way up,” said Wong. “There is an advantage in that weapon since it is unlikely to trigger a shock wave of sufficient size to block the entrance. But the second missile has to follow on within two seconds to take advantage of the initial shock, and avoid the likely rockfall. While this could theoretically be accomplished…”

“Spare me the specifics,” said the colonel. “You check this with the A-10 pilots?”

“It was not my preferred option,” said Wong. “Although the A-10As are equipped to fire Mavericks, without the addition of a LANTIRN targeting system…”

“Can it be done?”

“Of course, but…”

“Well make it happen,” said the colonel. His tone suddenly changed, becoming almost charming.

Almost.

“But before you do, tell me something— you parachuted into North Korea with that Gregory Team, didn’t you?”

Wong shuddered at the memory. He hadn’t been able to find anything to eat but fish the whole two weeks in country.

“Yes, sir.”

“As a matter of fact, you have a class D skydiver’s license and a jumpmaster’s ticket, don’t you?”

“I have done some skydiving, yes, sir.”

“Oh, that’s more than some,” said the colonel. “That’s more than most of my men. You’re current?”

“I believe I am.”

“You’re too modest Wong.” The colonel shook his head, as if that were something he had never expected to hear himself say. “That Korean jump was a tandem jump, as a matter of fact, wasn’t it?

“As it happened.”

“I like you, Wong. I really do. I want you to find Sergeant Hillup after you brief the pilots. I have another mission for you. Not quite as exciting as Afghanistan or Korea, I’ll bet, let alone your Vietnam foray last year, but it ought to raise your bp.”

“With all due respect…”

“This is right up your alley, Wong. Turns out you’re the only person in my command qualified for a tandem jump that I can actually spare to make one. We lost our last mechanic on a static-line solo jump because he didn’t know how to steer and hit the ground too hard. I can’t take any more chances. We need someone who can do a tandem jump and set her down gently.”

“Her who?” managed Wong.

“Sergeant Rosen.” The colonel grinned. “You’re going to deliver her to Fort Apache.”

CHAPTER 62

Dixon rolled over, waiting for the Iraqis to appear. Instead, the truck screeched around in a circle and headed back in the direction it had come. He couldn’t tell whether it had left the soldiers, and for the moment didn’t care. Scrambling to his feet, he proceeded as quickly and as quietly he could up the craggy slope.

The back of the hill could not be seen from the roadway or most of the quarry, but once he turned the corner to reach the spot where Winston was hidden, he would be totally exposed for nearly ten yards. He hesitated, spotting something that looked like the top of a vehicle near the entrance to the bunker. Finally, unable to wait any longer, he just went for it, crouching low and using the MP-5 for balance. He reached the rocks and slid in, just barely missing the prone body of the gravely wounded sergeant as he rolled onto his knees. He craned his neck up to catch a glimpse of the enemy below. He saw the turret of a tank at the head of the path, swinging around into position to guard the access to the cave.

Then he felt the cold barrel of a gun at his neck.

“About fucking time you got back,” rasped Winston beneath him.

The sergeant could move his arms, but little else. He swore it was just because of the cold. His legs ached as badly as the rest of his body; Dixon figured that was a good sign.

“I was worried you guys just left me,” Winston told him. “I heard the trucks but couldn’t see what the fuck was going on.”

“I didn’t leave you,” said Dixon. “I had to get Leteri.”

“Where the hell is that weasel?”

Dixon explained what had happened. Then, he crawled back to survey the Iraqi position from the rocks, exposed but just barely.

As Turk had suspected, the Iraqis had positioned the mines to enhance preplanned defensive positions. Dixon could see part of a tank — he guessed T-72— on Sugar Mountain’s driveway. It was about fifty yards away on a diagonal. To see more than just the gun and top of turret, Dixon had to stand and expose himself fully, which he naturally didn’t want to do.

He had a better view of a second tank at the far end of the quarry near the highway, even though it was two hundred yards or so away. Four or five Iraqi soldiers milled around behind it; he assumed that the group included the commander, since men kept approaching and then leaving.

He hadn’t seen any antiair defenses. Thirty seconds worth of Hog action and these bastards would be toast.

But he wasn’t in an A-10. He might just as well fantasize about being on a beach with supermodel Christie Brinkley.

If the commandos came back for them, could they take out the tanks? If the Hogs flew cover for them, they could. It’d be a piece of cake.

Except for him and Winston, who’d be right in the middle of the action.

Winston would be. Dixon could still get away. Once he was off the ledge, he could probably get back around the hill. If he trekked west a ways, he could probably find a spot to cross the road to Leteri without being seen.

But that meant leaving the sergeant, and that was unacceptable, especially now.

Dixon sized up the Iraqi defense. How much of it was blocked from his view? Half? A quarter? Was there another tank or three more? Mobile SAMs? Self-propelled triple-A?

His fingers were wrapped so tightly around the MP-5 that he had to pry them free with his other hand, then try to shake them back to flexibility. The fear of being spotted kept pumping adrenaline through his body, but he was tired as hell and ached everywhere. He couldn’t have eaten if he tried, but he was thirsty, and though he told himself it was better to ration sips of water he found his eyes constantly wandering to the canteen at his belt. Finally he couldn’t stand it and slid back into the shelter next to Winston to get a drink.

The sergeant’s arm twitched, jerking the pistol to the side.

“Sergeant? You okay?”

The trooper didn’t answer. His eyes had closed again. Dixon leaned down; for a moment he thought Winston had died but then he heard the sergeant’s chest rattle with fluid as he breathed. He reached over to his forehead, gently placing the back of his hand against it to see if he had a fever. He didn’t seem to, though Dixon’s fingers were so numb he might not be able to tell. He rubbed them together and then edged himself hard against the rocks, trying to find a semi-comfortable spot where he could remain hidden but see some of the Iraqi soldiers below.

A half-hour later, the lieutenant heard the distant whine of an approaching jet. Several planes had passed far overhead during the last two hours, but he knew right away this one was different— it was low and it was coming right toward them. The sound increased exponentially, then, even as the ground started to shake, the jet was overhead and gone, fleeing so quickly that Dixon got no more than a glimpse of its shadow. He guessed that it was a recon plane, most likely a British Tornado tasked for BDA or bomb damage assessment on Sugar Mountain.

The Iraqis behind the far tank threw themselves on the ground. They got up chattering, but they didn’t seem to be congratulating themselves on their good fortune. The commander pointed and shouted, and Dixon saw two of the men run to the parked truck beyond the tank at the edge of the highway. They took something out and began climbing up the side of the mountain toward the bomb crater.

They were still in view when he heard something move on the hillside behind him. He swung around, pulling up the submachine gun, cursing himself for not keeping a better guard.

He just barely avoided putting half-dozen rounds through Leteri’s face.

“Thought I’d see how you were making out,” said Leteri, ducking down to cover.

“That’s twice today I almost shot you,” said Dixon.

“Put me out of my misery.” Leteri unclenched his teeth and smiled briefly before his expression once more surrendered to the pain of his wounds. “I’m all right,” he told Dixon. “Took me forever to realize there was only one guard watching the whole back end of the quarry. I got around him easy but I was worried about running into someone else. Guess they don’t know we’re here, huh? How’s Winston?”

“He goes in and out.”

“That plane ours?”

“Yeah. He was checking for damage,” Dixon told him. “They’ll hit the bunker again. But before they do, we have to remove a slight impediment.”

“What’s that?” asked Leteri.

“Two of our friends over there just hauled something up the hill with them. I didn’t get a good look, but my bet is that it was a shoulder-fired missile, probably an SA-16. Anything comes back, it’s going down.”

CHAPTER 63

“You’re out of your gourd, Wong. No way anybody can guarantee those shots,” said A-Bomb. He shook his head and jerked his thumb back toward Doberman. “I don’t even think the Dog Man could do it, and he’s the best Mav gunner in the stinking Air Force. Mr. AGM.

“I attempted to point out the difficulty involved,” said Wong. “But the colonel…”

“I can do it,” said Doberman. “I set up on the way in and hand off without firing, get both nailed down, dial back, and bing-bang-bam.

“Two seconds?”

“Precisely 1.8 would be optimum,” said Wong.

And you’re going to get a solid aim point with the infrared?” said A-Bomb. “Exactly three quarters of the way up?”

“Don’t sweat it,” Doberman said. Part of him knew that even physically hitting the buttons quickly enough to get the shot off fast enough was nearly impossible.

Another part of him knew that he was going to do it. And fuck everybody else. Including and especially Klee.

A-Bomb, for maybe the first time he’d known him, was temporarily speechless. And Wong…

Wong was incapable of such a condition, unfortunately.

“There is a significant error coefficient,” Wong said. He had a pained expression that made it look like he was about to barf up a dissertation.

“Tell me about it later,” said Doberman. He turned toward the Hog pit area. “Let’s go talk to Rosen and make sure the planes get a last-minute tweak.”

“I’m afraid she won’t be available,” said Wong. “The sergeant and I are relocating.”

“Where you going?” asked A-Bomb.

“North,” said Wong. “Very far north.”

“I am going to do you the biggest favor of your life, Captain, and forget every fucking word you just told me.” Colonel Klee pushed his words out in a perfect imitation of the Big Bad Wolf blowing down one of the pig’s straw houses. “You get your fanny in gear and you do your job. I’ll worry about who else goes where, why, and how.”

Doberman didn’t bother biting his teeth together, or taking a breath, or counting to ten, or any of the one million things he’d done in his life to try and keep his temper under control.

They never worked anyway.

“Squadron personnel are my responsibility,” he said. “And Rosen…”

“I expect that door down before 11oo hours. You got that?”

“Screw you.”

“What?”

“Screw you.”

Doberman stormed out of the command post so hot his head probably would have melted metal. A-Bomb, who’d been waiting outside, had to run to keep up.

“Colonel didn’t appreciate you pointing out to him that Rosen’s female, huh?” said A-Bomb as Doberman passed him outside.

Doberman didn’t answer.

“Kind of funny if she becomes a war hero, don’t you think?” A-Bomb began trotting to keep up.

Doberman wasn’t quite sure where he was going to go. He wanted to hop into the Hog and take it straight north to Baghdad and give Saddam a Maverick enema.

Then he’d come back and do the same for Klee, the shithead.

“You sure you want to take both shots? I mean, I know you can make them, that’s not what I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb. “Hey, for a little guy, you sure walk fast.”

“Who says I’m little?”

“I do.”

“Screw yourself,” said Doberman, picking up his pace.

“You got to play cards with me tonight,” said A-Bomb, trotting behind him. “I figure we can win enough for a couple of nightscopes. These guys think Baseball’s something you do with a bat.”

Doberman had known A-Bomb for a long time, and there was no one he would rather fly with. O’Rourke was the best wingman in the Air Force, period. But there were times when he was just too much to take. He was always making a joke about something, or finding some way to bend the rules in his favor, or just ignoring them. Not only did he flout convention, he thought the laws of physics were optional.

“Screw you, A-Bomb,” Doberman said, his legs cranking faster. “We got to get in the air, right now, and I don’t want any more of your bullshit.”

“Hey Dog Man, hold up,” said A-Bomb, trotting beside him. “Yo man, you got to calm down a bit.”

“I am calm.”

“Listen, Dog.” A-Bomb’s fingers grabbed his biceps like a vice. Doberman swung around, ready to slug his friend away for joking around.

But the look on his face stopped him. A-Bomb’s words were flat and calm and cold, as direct as the arc of a bomb on a ninety-degree drop.

“Your job now is to stay level,” said Captain O’Rourke. “You’re going to be the squadron Director of Operations when we get back to the Home Drome. You and I both know it. Everybody’s going to depend on you. You can’t let your anger go like you used to. Shit, Dixon and these Special Ops guys are depending on you. Me, too.” A-Bomb’s fingers tightened. “I got your six. No matter what. But you level off.”

Doberman nodded. “Yeah, I know.” He pulled his arm free. “Damn. I’m pissed.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” said A-Bomb.

“You’re looking at me like you got a question.”

“Yeah, I got a question. You sure you can make those shots?”

“In my sleep,” said Doberman.

A-Bomb nodded deeply. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Doberman started walking again. It was hard for him to stay pissed at A-Bomb. It was hard for him to stay pissed at anyone. Except Saddam and Klee.

He could do the shots. It was physically impossible, but who the hell cared? Line ‘em up and spin the bottle. One-two, bing-bang-bam.

He’d have to lose the thumb thing, though. Bad habit anyway. Just a tic. Where had it come from, anyway? It was a superstition— bullshit.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Doberman told A-Bomb as they walked. “We get the Hogs gassed and we support the helos at their cow field or whatever the damn pickup is.

“Cornfield.”

“Yeah, good. We load up for bear, help them get their helo, and make sure Dixon’s okay. Then we nail the motherfucker door.”

“You sure we have the fuel to do all that?” A-Bomb asked.

“No problem.”

“We don’t get Sugar Mountain, the colonel’s going to be mad, no?”

“You want to hit it while Dixon’s still there?”

“No way.”

“Then we better make sure he gets out, right?”

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

Walking made Doberman feel better. So did having a plan. So did knowing he was going to get Dixon the hell out of that shit.

“Hey, listen, I’m sorry,” he told A-Bomb.

“Yeah, my ass you’re sorry.”

“I got the shots,” Doberman told him. “No offense, but you know I’m better than you.”

“I ain’t offended, Dog Man. You’re Mr. AGM.”

“You got that cross thing Tinman gave you?”

“Um, well, kinda,” A-Bomb said.

“Kinda?”

“The little doohickey spring that connects to the batteries in my CD player snapped. I thought it was the batteries, but it was just the little spring.”

“You used the cross to make the connection?”

“Hey, it’s silver. Best conductor in the world. But listen, I can probably find something else.”

It was just a goddamn superstition, Doberman thought. “Don’t worry about it.” He took a step and stopped, reached down and yanked off his boot”

“Whoa— what the hell are you doing?” yelped A-Bomb.

Doberman held the small penny he’d found on the tarmac the first day of the air war. Luck? Power? Spirit world? Nightwalkers?

All bullshit.

He flung the coin into the desert.

CHAPTER 64

This wasn’t going to be too bad. Sure, the ground looked like a splotch of her grandmother’s old blankets and her teeth were already chattering with the cold, but Rosen was sure she could make the jump. Captain Wong claimed to have done this hundreds of times, and Wong wasn’t the type to exaggerate.

Which cast his comments about the location of the base in a certain light hard to ignore, though she was trying her best to.

A lone crewman waited with them in the rear of the MC-130E. The plane had dipped to ten thousand feet and started a banking turn, which Wong had warned her would signal they were approaching the drop zone. She cinched the strap on her helmet and put her hands up as the captain snugged their two-place harness tight; there was no backing out now.

He nudged her and Rosen waddled over to the rear ramp. The crewman lugged her packed tool kit, which had its own parachute and static line, alongside them. Rosen had expected to be almost sucked out of the plane, but standing on the open ramp she felt no more pressure than she might have on a diving board.

Nerves, though, that was something she felt. Wong folded his arms around her waist and pushed his legs into hers. She stiff-legged toward the edge, then closed her eyes.

He’d told her to relax and above all not push off when they jumped; parachuting was more a surrender to the wind than a dive into the air. Besides, if she moved too sharply she would whack him in the “testicular region,” as he put it.

Rosen tried to make her body limp as she felt the ramp disappear beneath her right foot. In the next instant, she felt the air squeezed from her chest and her stomach mushroomed. Eyes closed, she started to flail with her elbow then stopped, realizing she was falling.

Or flying.

She opened her eyes. Becky Rosen was truly flying, the brown earth spreading out all below her, clear blue sky surrounding her head. Her head floated in Nirvana. She felt her jumpsuit ripple against its cuffs as the wind gusted. Wong had told her about arching, and how to spread her arms and legs in the basic free-fall position; she realized now that her body had naturally moved there, arms and legs bent perfectly, as if she had done this a million times. Wong’s body surrounded her, holding her much more tenderly than she would have imagined.

It was like being in a dream, this falling.

Then she felt herself being yanked backward, from the waist and then the shoulders and then her legs. She stood up. She remembered Wong was behind her. She felt a different kind of tug and once more they were flying, though this time much slower and in an upright position. Rosen could see only the leading edge of the oversized chute above her head, but she could feel the captain maneuvering it, steering the chute through the air as if he were a glider.

The earth was no longer a blob. She saw a flat space before her, long and narrow. There was a large lump and several smaller ones at one end.

They had fallen quite a ways before she recognized that the large lump was a helicopter under a camo netting. The objects nearby were shelters dug into the dirt.

Wong steered the chute around into a miniature landing pattern as they approached. He had told her something about landing, but she was damned if she could remember what the hell it was.

Run?

No.

Roll?

No.

That was what he didn’t want her to do.

Step off like an escalator had been what he said.

Unfortunately, she remembered too late, after he had flared the chute and plopped onto the ground in what would have been a perfect, one-mile-an-hour landing into the wind. Rosen lost her balance and fell over. Wong lost his balance and tumbled on top of her; the chute pushed them along the runway toward a group of Special Ops soldiers who were trying hard not to give themselves hernias from their laughter.

“You’re a girl,” said one of the soldiers, helping her up as Wong unsnapped the tandem harness.

“Wow, something weird must have happened on the way down,” Rosen told him, pulling the shoulder straps away.

“You’re a fucking girl,” repeated the trooper.

“Well I’m not fucking you, Sherlock,” said Rosen. “Or anyone else up here. You gonna stand there gawking, or are you gonna get me to that helicopter you want fixed?

CHAPTER 65

William James “BJ” Dixon had spent a great deal of his life wishing to become a fighter pilot, and then working toward that goal. It had taken a lot of sacrifice on his part, hard work, and once or twice some decent luck to accomplish his goals. He had always been willing to do whatever it took; the dream had defined him, and he would sooner have thought of slicing off his arm than giving it up.

He had never, in all his life, dreamed of being a ground soldier, much less a commando. A year ago, even a week ago, the idea of running around with a gun deep in enemy territory would have seemed as unlikely as playing quarterback for the Green Bay Packers in the Super Bowl.

But he was here, and his life was now defined by two irrefutable facts:

The man with the SA-16 had to be eliminated.

The only one who could do it was him.

He expected Leteri to protest when he told him what he was going to do; Leteri did, suggesting that he go instead. But it was obvious to Dixon that the corporal would never manage to get across the ledge and around the mountain to surprise the Iraqis.

Leteri also mentioned another alternative.

“We can just bug out.”

“How the fuck are we going to do that?” Dixon asked him.

“I’m not saying we should,” said Leteri. “I’m just saying it may be better than committing suicide.”

“You gonna leave Winston?”

“No.”

“If Hawkins sends a helicopter for us, these bastards will nail it,” Dixon said. “Those shoulder-launched missiles are tough to get away from. Even the Hogs will be in trouble.” He got up. “I’ll leave you the M-16 and grenade launcher. I can’t use it for shit anyway. You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

This time, Leteri didn’t offer a salute, and Dixon somehow interpreted that as an even higher honor.

He had to crawl the first ten yards to get around the side, but beyond that it was safe to walk, protected both by the ridge and the Iraqis’ own over-confidence. They weren’t necessarily incompetent, Dixon reminded himself; they were just so far behind the lines that they couldn’t imagine American soldiers were sitting right next to them. He guessed that he acted the same way hanging out at Cineplex in Hog Heaven.

The fire was burning again at the back of his head, stronger now. His eyes were hard little spotlights, searching the rocks. The MP-5 was part of his hands; he didn’t have to think about it as he moved.

A lookout had been posted at end of the ravine he needed to climb down to get around the ridge and up onto the cratered hilltop where the missile launcher was. Dixon had a clear, easy shot of no more than ten yards— but no way to take it without alerting the entire Iraqi contingent.

The soldier faced the road, alternately standing and sitting, his Kalashnikov hanging loosely at his side. Dixon was only partly protected from view by the corner of the rock face and some large boulders. The man’s attention seemed focused entirely on the road and desert in front of him.

Somewhere in the foggy early days of his military training, Dixon had been taught how to smash the back of an enemy’s skull with the butt end of a bayoneted rifle, then twist the gun around and stab him in the throat.

Or the heart. He couldn’t remember which. He did remember that he hadn’t done very well in any of those lessons or exercises.

And anyway, the MP-5 didn’t come with a bayonet.

If he could sneak close enough to the man, he could smash him across the side of the face with the gun. Then he’d haul out his knife and finish him off.

Dixon judged that the soldier was twenty pounds lighter and maybe six inches shorter than he was. He ought to be able to take him in a fight, especially if he was able to surprise him.

Could he? The ground seemed fairly stable, no large rocks or boulders to trip over or send flying, tipping him off.

Ten yards. Two seconds?

More like three or four. If he got off cleanly.

The Iraqi started to turn in his direction. Dixon ducked back behind the rocks, barely in time.

Or so he thought. As he held his breath, he heard the man start to climb toward him.

Dixon pushed his knee against the rock and bit the corner of his lip, trying not to breathe, not to exist. Retreating was impossible; there was no cover behind him for five or six yards.

His finger edged lightly on the trigger. He’d kill this bastard at least, and two or three of the next men who came for him. Dixon pushed his right shoulder up, steadied himself for a shot.

The man stopped right next to the crevice wall, not three feet away around the corner, and began fumbling with his clothes.

He was taking a leak.

Go!

Dixon caught him in the side of the head, smashed him with the hard stock of the machine-gun butt.

Stunned, the Iraqi fell backwards, his gun falling away.

Dixon went after him, losing his balance and plunging his gun barrel-first into the soldier’s chest. The man struggled to turn over, both of them sliding downwards. Dixon took two wild swings, then lost the gun somehow, tumbling against the soldier and feeling a hard knee in his ribs. The fire in his head flared; his right fist found the soldier’s chin once, twice, three times in succession, pounding the man temporarily limp. Without thinking about exactly what he was doing, Dixon snatched his knife from his belt and stabbed it point-first into the man’s throat. He slid it around, slashing inside the wound as if he were taking out an apple core.

Finally, he realized the man was dead and jumped up mid-stab. He took a step backward and picked up his gun, conscious of the noise they had made, worried that someone might have heard the commotion. He held both the submachine gun and the knife in his hand as he ducked down as he scanned the area, keeping his breath still nearly sixty seconds, listening for the sound of men running to avenge their comrade’s gruesome death.

All he hear was silence. He straightened, then stooped to wipe the bloody knife blade on his pants leg. He slid the knife back into its sheath, and noticed that his uniform was black with the dead man’s blood.

Pants still undone, the Iraqi sprawled obscenely on hillside, blood oozing from his neck and chest. Dixon felt a twinge of compassion; he stooped down to pull the man’s pants closed.

That was the old Dixon— the good, overachieving kid next door whose impulses sometimes led him to do foolish things, and whose conscience never let him forget them; the kid who worried about failing and struggled to do his duty.

But the new Dixon hauled the dead Iraqi up into the crevice out of sight, dropping him quickly and unceremoniously against the side of the rocks. He let the dead man and his old self go without wasting another second thinking about the frenetic impulse that to kill that flamed like kerosene in Dixon’s hands and eyes. He felt the fire in his head, and used it to push him up the ravine toward his goal.

CHAPTER 66

Colonel Klee made one slight concession to the Hog drivers, Doberman specifically. He sent one of his flunkies to tell Doberman that if he wanted to go north early in case they were needed with the helo pickup, that was all right.

Doberman wasn’t sure how the colonel figured out that he intended on going away, but it didn’t alter his opinion of him. He hadn’t thought Klee was a fool, just a douche bag.

They tanked after taking off to gain a little more time for the mission. Done, Doberman pushed his plane out over the desert toward central Iraq. Truth was, both planes and men were being stretched beyond their reason, but he couldn’t give a shit about that. Numbers, formulas, all that crap— that was engineering, and right now he didn’t care for any of it. He was driving a Hog.

Still, it was a long haul north with little to do except sweat. He kept turning his eyes back to the Maverick’s small television monitor, thinking about the double whammy he had to make.

What if the lock drifted or got lost or he couldn’t get the little pipper precisely right as he rode in? What if somebody started firing at him, breaking his concentration?

If anybody could make it, Doberman could. No bullshit. Mr. AGM.

Just like he could hit an inside card to make a Royal Straight Flush.

If there was such thing as luck, his was for shit. He had the luck of Job. Period.

Maybe he should’ve gotten the cross from Shotgun after all. Or at least not thrown the penny away.

Fucking goddamn crazy people were polluting his mind.

“Devil Flight this is Apache Air One. Are you reading me?”

Doberman acknowledged the helicopter’s call and took his coordinates, then gave a quick glance to the map on his kneepad. They were right on schedule, right where they were supposed to be.

“We are one-zero minutes from the Cornfield,” said the commando in the helicopter.

“Acknowledged,” said Doberman. “Wait for the green light.”

“That’s cross at the green, and not in between,” joked A-Bomb over the squadron frequency.

Doberman found his way point and made a slight course adjustment. He didn’t bother acknowledging, but listened only to the Hog and his breath as he slammed onward.

Five minutes later, cued not only by the INS but by the highway below, Doberman pitched his wing over and fell toward the ground. The Hog grunted appreciatively, readying her cannon as she accelerated toward the ground, steadying herself under her pilot’s hand into a stable downward plunge that gave Doberman a perfect view of the countryside. The disabled AH-6G sat directly in the middle of his HUD. The remains of the Iraqi column sat on the lower ground a few hundred yards away, the broken tank at the top left of his screen with the other vehicles behind it as Doberman began pulling the stick back. He eased out of the dive at a still relatively safe four thousand feet. He was pulling over four hundred knots, cranking by on his first run just to see if there was anything below still moving. He was past the highway and large stream, then pulling around. Trailing in Devil Two, A-Bomb told him nothing had moved.

“This one’s low and slow,” Doberman told him, already stepping the Hog down into a more leisurely glide. He could see some tracks leading off the highway but couldn’t tell if they belonged to the wrecked vehicles or someone else. If it was someone else they were gone. The tank and APCs the Hogs had splashed sat like twisted wrecks, forlorn and waiting to be claimed by the junkman. Nothing moved.

He wasn’t letting Apache One take a chance, though, not with Rosen aboard and Dixon depending on them. He slipped back around and stepped down to Hog country— five hundred feet, speed dropping now to just under three hundred knots, tiptoeing over the enemy’s dead bodies.

The downed helicopter sat in front of a shallow plateau, looking as if she’d just set down. Doberman put the A-10 on her wing, waltzing through yet another pass, this one as close to a walk as he could manage, though he was still moving so fast he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t someone hiding in the wreckage.

But no one had fired at him, and the helo was now under two minutes away.

“See anything, Dog?” asked A-Bomb.

“Looks clean,” he told him. “You?”

“Negative,” said A-Bomb.

Doberman saw a small bee zipping in from the southwest. It was Apache One.

“Greenlight,” he told the commandos. “Kick ass.”

“Kick it yourself,” was the reply.

CHAPTER 67

Rosen jumped out of the arriving helicopter right behind Captain Hawkins, her tool case in one hand and an MP-5 in the other.

She’d have trade both for a manual. She was a damn expert in avionics and com gear, a whiz at everything electronic, and had worked on gas turbines enough to smell like them— but her mind went blank as she ran toward the helicopter.

Just fuzzed. She knew it would come back, but until then, how to jump start it? She glanced quickly at the top of damaged helicopter and its tail, saw that they were intact, then lugged her tools into the cockpit.

“Hey!” she yelled behind her. “Where’s my pilot?”

“Here,” said the man, a tall, chain-smoking Floridian whose name was either Slim, Bim or Flim; she couldn’t be sure.

“Start it up,” she told him.

“You don’t want to check it first?”

“Maybe nothing’s wrong. Start it up. If it works we’ll worry about it later.”

“What about the rotor blades?”

Rosen gave the pilot a look that made him climb inside. She took the co-pilot’s seat and examined the interior; nothing was obviously out of place, except for the bullet holes in the windshield— and the dead pilot’s blood.

“I’m trying to turn her over but I got nothing,” said the pilot. “Instruments are dead. Engine should be coughing and the rotors cranking, see? You gonna check it now?”

“Good, we’re looking good,” Rosen said. “Kill the power. Don’t smoke until I’m sure there’s no gas leak,” she said, zipping open her toolkit and then clambering out the door to climb between the rotor and the roof. Her mind was still fuzzy, like a TV caught between pictures on two different stations.

Then it cleared, and she could imagine a motor laid out perfectly in her head.

Trouble was, it didn’t belong to an AH-6G, or any other member of the MD530 family. In fact, it didn’t belong to a helicopter at all.

It was a good ol’ Chevy 350, V-8, stock, untuned, lying the center of the vast engine compartment belonging to her grandfather’s Impala.

Heck of a motor, just not what she wanted to be thinking about right now.

The stream of bullets that had taken out the pilot had made an arc up the top of the glass across the roof and rotor mechanism. The bullets seemed to have either missed or grazed off. There were dents in the faring but nothing serious.

“Don’t smoke!” she warned the pilot as she slid off the front of the helicopter.

“It ain’t lit!”

She climbed over the rocket launcher and hung beneath the body of the aircraft. A spray of bullets had nearly shot one of the bottom right-side access panels off. The metal was so loose that a touch of her screwdriver kicked it away.

And damned if the problem, one of them anyway, wasn’t right in front of her— the bullets had chewed up one of the wire harnesses.

Hey, ignition system, no shit. That was exactly what had been wrong with Grandpa’s Impala. Except it had been damaged by squirrels, not 30 mm bullets.

There was a warren of wires here, enough to keep a squadron of mechanics busy for hours testing and tying them together.

Best punt, as Sergeant Clyston would say.

“OK, Slim Jim, hey, come here,” she shouted. “And for christsakes, don’t fucking smoke!”

The pilot slipped out of the chopper. Rosen was used to Air Force pilots, most of whom ran instead of walked. The Army Special Ops pilot had a much slower approach to life, ambling around to her.

Or maybe she had just been thrown into overdrive and the rest of the world was at normal speed.

“You see colors?” she asked.

“What do you mean colors?”

“You color blind?”

“No.”

“Good. This is gonna be kind of like a game, except it’s not.”

Rosen took a roll of spare wire and electrical tape from her toolbox and threw it to him. Then she explained how to strip the ends off the wires and reattach them. She emphasized the importance of getting the color coding absolutely correct; they could easily short something important out if they didn’t.

“We going to re-attach everyone?”

“Only if we have to,” said Rosen. “Every five wires, you go see what works. Just shout before you do.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Number one, I want to make sure the gas tanks aren’t leaking before you blow us all to bits.”

“It ain’t lit!” he protested, taking the cigarette from his mouth to prove it.

Hawkins saw that the survivors from the firefight, or maybe reinforcements, had taken away the dead, including the Americans. Relief mixed with his anger as he surveyed the scene. Taking the bodies back would have been difficult if they couldn’t get the second bird going. The captain called his two men back and made sure they had carefully gone through the site. He knew, of course, that they had, but asking was part of his job and they accepted it without complaint, assuring him the site was “clean.”

“Wait for me by our helo,” he told them, then headed over to Rosen. She was working on something at the tail end of the aircraft.

“How long?” he asked.

“If this rotor control and the wires are the only problem, I’m thinking another ten minutes, fifteen tops. This isn’t serious at all.”

“What if they’re not the only problem?”

“Well, I think they are. The blades are all good, the engine itself wasn’t hit and there’s gas. The infra-red radar will probably be out and I won’t vouch for anything electrical until the engine’s back, but Slim Jim ought to be able to fly it back.”

“Gary’s his name.”

“Gary?” It was the first time since they’d met that her face betrayed anything but dead certainty. “Really?”

“We’re going to leave you here and get our guys,” said Hawkins. “You run into trouble, call us.”

“What if the radio doesn’t work?”

“If we don’t hear from you, we’ll come back,” he called back, already trotting toward his helicopter.

CHAPTER 68

There was no way he was sneaking up on this guard, and no way was he getting lucky enough to dump him easily either.

Twenty feet of rubble and a sixty-degree slope separated Dixon and the soldier posted near the summit of the cliff. The man had his side to Dixon and his back to the lip of the bomb crater where the man with the missile was. And he was paying attention to his job— Dixon had to duck back around the cliff wall as the man walked his short line back and forth across the ledge.

Rush the man now and everyone would hear. He might be able to kill the soldier, then get up over the lip of the crater and take out the man with the missile, but only if the second man wasn’t armed. And only if this guard was the other soldier he’d seen climbing the hill with him.

Too many ifs.

He could wait until he heard a plane. The Iraqis might find him by then.

Dixon could walk back around to the other side and try to get a firing position. That would take at least forty-five minutes, and he’d be in the open much of the way.

If he went back and put on the uniform of the man he’d killed, he might be able to get close enough to take them out before they realized he was an American.

Nah. It was covered with blood and too small.

Dixon stuck his head around the corner of the rocks. The guard had walked further along his lookout ledge and was out of view, though Dixon could hear his footsteps scrunching in the dirt.

The ledge blocked most of the cliff face directly below his sight. If Dixon could go down about twenty feet and then tack out across the rock face, he’d get by him without being seen. That would put him a few yards from the side of the crater, with a good view of the soldier with the missile.

That would also put him in clear view of the guard.

He’d have to take them both out very quickly.

Doable. Then fire the missile into the dirt.

Better yet, into one of the tanks. If he could figure out how it worked.

Dixon studied the cracks on the quarried rock face below the guard. It wouldn’t be easy.

Doable, though. Best way.

The guard turned and Dixon ducked back behind cover. He’d have to wait until the guard was about halfway before starting.

Dixon was going across. It would take fifteen minutes and some luck.

Make it ten, he decided. And screw luck.

CHAPTER 69

“Try it!” Rosen shouted.

Nothing happened.

But damn, all the wires were together. She had current. There was definitely fuel. What the hell?

Her fingers were just touching the body of the engine when she felt a vibration. At first she thought it was an electrical shock; she yanked her hand back as the turbine coughed.

It started, coughed again, and stopped.

Progress.

“Shit,” said the pilot.

“Give it another shot.”

“These things are supposed to start right up.”

Rosen rolled her eyes. Pilots!

Sergeant Clyston wouldn’t have this problem. When he told a pilot to do something, they damn sure did it.

It had to do with the way he used his voice.

“Give it another shot,” she said, trying to sound exactly as the sergeant would have.

The engine cranked to life.

“Let it run!” she shouted, running to the cockpit. “I have to make some adjustments and see what I can do about the panel. Then I’ll get the radio to work.”

“Radar’s out. No radio,” said the pilot. “How the hell am I going to fly without a radio?”

She ran back to the engine shaking her head. Pilots.

CHAPTER 70

Dixon slid his hand into the crack, pushing it sideways to get as secure a grip as he could manage before swinging his right leg toward the foothold.

His boot slipped and he had to strain to hold himself up. He pushed off with his left foot and caught a got foothold just as the ache in his arms became unbearable. He breath deeply, then inched his left hand to the same crack as his right, pulling his body across the face of the rock as he found a new place for his right hand.

He had maybe five feet to go, five easy feet. All he had to do was get there and he’d be beyond the guard and have a line on missile boy in the crater. His head sagged backward. He was tired as hell, but he wasn’t stopping now. As he flexed his shoulder muscles slightly, the guard’s footsteps approached above him to the left. He froze, waiting for the man to continue his rounds, walk past him, turn, then go back the other way.

While he waited, Dixon plotted his next two hand-holds: large, squared notches on the rock. He had a good ledge for his feet, though it was a bit of a stretch to get to the holds. As the guard turned and began walking back, Dixon moved his right leg, found solid footing, then pulled for the new spot. He was there, he had it, only two feet to go and he’d be on the rocks, scrambling toward the top.

Something gave way behind him.

Rocks tumbled. He heard curses and people running. Dixon curled his body into a ball and plunged to the right, landing hard on the rocks at the side of the hill where he’d been aiming. He pulled the submachine-gun up, ready to take a long blast, make something out of nothing before they killed him.

But the shouts weren’t for him. A helicopter was approaching, a dark bee in the distance.

And something else, something that exploded nearly straight down from the sky. It came faster than an archangel and with considerably more prejudice, not to mention a lot more explosives.

The Hogs had arrived.

CHAPTER 71

A-Bomb had both tanks at about eight-thousand feet and three miles off, a turkey shoot for the Mavericks, which were salivating in anticipation on his wings— and who could blame them? But he had to hold them in reserve, in case Doberman missed. As unlikely as he knew that was, it was the plan, and so A-Bomb merely sighed and soldiered on, getting ready to drop the iron bombs instead. He fixed the Hog’s nose at nearly a ninety-degree angle toward the ground, nonchalantly making his wind adjustments and bopping to the beat of E Street shuffle.

Finger itching on the pickle button as he framed the first tank in his HUD, A-Bomb decided that The Price is Right was just what he was looking to play here.

Or rather, The Bomb is Right.

“Who’s today’s lucky winner, Johnny?” he asked as the target grew fat and ever more juicy. “Why, it’s tank number one, a lovely little T-72 model fresh from the factory at Minsk. I know it’s not really Minsk, Bob, but I just love saying that. Minsk. Minsk.”

“And what have they won?” continued the pilot. “Why, two lovely five hundred pound bombs, right down the poop chute.”

He releasing his bombs and pushed the stick for a quick drop on the second tank. It was close to physically impossible to nail them both on the same swoop given their separation and his steep angle, but A-Bomb went for it anyway, swinging the Hog’s wings.

The shot fluttered toward the aim point, then fritter away.

The Iraqis actually had the gall to try and shoot at him as he began to pull back on his stick; a fair-sized knot of soldiers appeared in the center of his windscreen and he had to exercise an extreme amount of willpower not to toss his bombs at them, saving the heavy iron for the tank.

Which, really, he should have gotten on that first run, tough angle or not. Problem was, he decided, he hadn’t gone with the flow. He’d gone with a game show, when he should have just gone with The Boss.

No problem. He clicked the play button on his personal stereo and dished up “Thunder Road.” At the same time, he slammed the Hog into a butt-crunching, face-distorting negative-G turn and climbed, looping out at the top, and nailing down into a dive toward the tank. The Hog snapped her tail and picked up speed, revving with pleasure as her pilot decided to use the cannon instead of the bomb.

This is what she was designed to do: unzip Soviet tanks. And even if this wasn’t Europe and the big hunk of metal in front of her was technically bigger and thicker than her designers had envisioned her frying, the Hog had fury and momentum on her side.

The tank commander’s 7.62mm winked at the plane as she came. It seemed to A-Bomb that a bullet or two actually grazed off the lower titanium hull.

“Don’t do that,” A-Bomb warned. “You’re only going to piss her off.”

The tank commander obviously heard him, for the stream of bullets veered away.

“You know what I’m here for,” sang Shotgun, echoing Bruce Springsteen as he pressed the kill button. His first bullets greased harmlessly across one of the Dolly Parton plates at the front of the t-72. The stream moved upwards, streaming left and right, until A-Bomb found the relatively soft top of the turret.

Then he nailed it down, riding the rudder pedals as his uranium slugs erased the bastard’s top and back end.

Shotgun let off on the gun, pulling up and sailing over the rock quarry, considering whether to find something else or get more altitude. He was just banking when he heard Doberman shouting in his head. A frantic warning cut through the chaos, drowning out the Big Man’s saxophone:

“Missile on the hill! Missile on the hill!”

CHAPTER 72

Dixon scrambled to his feet as the bombs separated from the Hog, aimed squarely at the top of the tank stationed to the east of the mountain. By the time they exploded, he was throwing himself forward over the edge of the crater, and in the same motion spraying the figure standing below him with bullets.

Wounded, the man staggered backwards, away from the SAM pack; Dixon pushed himself to his feet, felt the ground exploding and remembered the guard. He lost his footing and fell, tumbling in the dirt against the jagged rocks, bullets flying around him. He tried to aim his gun but lost his grip. He saw the guard, and fumbled to get his finger back on the trigger. Someone yanked at his leg as he fired.

He missed the Iraqi guard, but made him duck for cover.

The other man he’d shot clung to Dixon’s leg, clawing at him and reaching for his pistol. Dixon smashed him with the side of the submachine gun, crushing his own finger against the man’s skull. Dixon yelped in pain, then pushed back as the man grabbed again for his pistol, sending three slugs into the Iraqi’s skull.

Dixon spun and threw himself in the direction of the missile pack on the ground, letting off a long burst from the MP-5 back in the direction of the ridge. The Iraqi guard there fired back. Dixon pumped his gun until the clip emptied. Finally, the Iraqi soldier disappeared— whether hit or simply reloading, Dixon didn’t care.

A heavy machine gun began peppering the ridge as Dixon grabbed the SA-16 missile launcher from the dirt. He ducked, fumbling with the controls. When the machine gun stopped, he rose, propped the launcher on his shoulder and aimed it toward the Iraqis.

Nothing happened when he pressed the trigger. He had to duck down as the Iraqi machine gunner chewed up the rocks in front of him. Examining the launcher, Dixon realized there were two triggers, one a primer and one the actual trigger. As soon as the machine-gun stopped, Dixon jumped up and fired the heat-seeking missile downward in the direction of his enemies.

CHAPTER 73

A-Bomb cursed as the SAM launched toward him. He kicked out more flares and wagged his butt around, jinking crazier than a topless dancer working for tips, before realizing the rocket had been aimed downwards. It flew straight into the hillside, bouncing off a rock before exploding. A sixth sense told him Dixon had grabbed the SAM, the kid deciding to try playing wingman without a plane.

Just then, the CD skipped four tracks. “Born to Run” slammed into his ears.

Talk about karma. At exactly the same moment, the helo pilot hit the radio and said he was coming in and could somebody do something about the machine guns? A-Bomb lit the Gatling, aiming to ice the enemy nests near the roadway.

He hoped Dixon, if that really was Dixon, had seen the helicopter and got his butt into the damn whirly sardine can. Playing Rambo in the rocks was all well and good, but it was time for him to call it a day.

CHAPTER 74

Metal and pulverized stone hung thick in the air as Apache One raced toward the position Turk had given them. Hawkins started to warn the pilot about an APC with machine guns in their path, but he was already greasing his rockets and veering right. They flew directly over another gun position before spotting the hideout, well hidden on the hill next to Sugar Mountain.

Hawkins caught himself against the frame and thought they’d been hit, cordite and God knew what else blowing around his head. But the pilot was only trying to get down onto the hill as quickly as possible. The Iraqis were firing everything they had as the helicopter’s skids neared the rocks.

A grenade or something equally obnoxious exploded near enough to send dirt ripping through the helo rotors. The pilot shouted something but Hawkins was out of the craft by then.

He saw Dixon squatting and shooting a few yards from the position; a grenade shot off in the direction of the Iraqi trucks.

Sergeant Winston was lying behind rocks in a shallow trench, right in front of Hawkins. As slowly and calmly as he could, the captain bent down over him, waiting as Stone brought the backboard and stretcher.

“Take your time, take your time,” Hawkins said, as much to himself as to Stone. Despite a fresh hail of bullets and screaming explosions all around them, the captain did his best to make sure Winston’s neck was secure as they lifted him out.

He felt himself slip on the rocks, caught his knee against something hard, and felt his gut wrench. His head suddenly felt light and he knew he’d been hit. He bent forward and managed somehow to get to his feet, guided by the stretcher. Soon, they were strapping Winston stiff to the skids. The pilot was screaming in his face. They got aboard, Dixon scrambling and jumping. The helicopter rose into the air, the cabin shaking as it was laced with gunfire. One of the Hogs streaked in front of them, inches away it looked like, smoke and fury pouring from its mouth as it nailed the Iraqis who were trying to kill them.

“Tell them to do it. Take out the bunker,” Hawkins hear himself say twice, three times, and he turned around to congratulate Dixon, make him an honorary member of the Death Riders because goddamn he deserved it.

Except it wasn’t Dixon. And though he was sure as shit pleased to see his man back alive, what the hell had happened to his Air Force lieutenant?

CHAPTER 75

There was so much goddamn smoke it was screwing up the IR targeting head in the Maverick. Doberman cursed as the helicopter stayed on the ground, taking fire as the Special Ops people ran to retrieve their men. If they didn’t move quickly he was going to have to bank away and reposition himself to make sure he had a clear shot.

He was so low he could hop out and run alongside the damn airplane. These bastards were going to figure out where he was eventually and start firing at him.

And son of a bitch— he was bingo fuel.

“I’m going to cover for that helo,” said A-Bomb, slashing overhead.

“You check your fuel?”

“Can’t see the gauge from here.

“Don’t get in my fucking way,” said Doberman. He cursed and kicked the Hog into a turn to reposition himself, not really mad but stoking his emotions anyway, building the adrenaline as he spurred himself into the fight. He got a strong whiff of kerosene or something in his nose, imagining that his fuel tanks had sprung a leak. He started to laugh because that was just ridiculous. The oxygen was as pure as heaven, and he had a good view in the screen as he came back into his attack pattern. He was lined up and loose; feeling like he did the first time he ever fired a Maverick on a practice run— he’d nailed that sucker and nailed everyone dead-on since.

The helo skittered away. A-Bomb cleared.

It was his turn.

The Iraqis seemed to have a thousand guys down there, every one of them armed with a machine-gun, every one of them blasting away at him.

Good fucking luck hitting me. And I mean that sincerely.

Doberman put his head nearly onto the Mav screen, leaning as close to it as his restraints would allow, big fat cursor nailed two-thirds of the way up the door.

Next and nailed. He let it go, squeezed, and kept going, up and on— go, go, go. He pickled again— no thumb thing, no luck, no ritual, no bullshit, just squeezed the son of a bitch faster than anybody ever thought possible, faster than any engineer would calculate.

He kept going, watching the first missile slam in, the second missile flying right behind it.

Doberman banked through the hail of nasty, small machine-gun bullets. It was all up to the missiles now, all luck if it happened the way Wong said it should.

Luck.

What the fuck.

CHAPTER 76

Dixon threw the missile launcher away, rolling himself to the ground and scooping up the MP-5. He slammed a fresh clip into the gun and aimed it back in the direction of top of the crater, but no one was there. He slid out to the side of the ledge, leaned his gun over, then pushed his head down.

Nothing.

He scrambled ahead, the end of the submachine gun trained on the rocks. He reached the corner of the rock face without seeing anyone and ran across the ledge. Still no one appeared. He began picking his way down the boulders that had forced him onto the rock face earlier.

The helicopter’s loud whine reverberated through the quarry. Dixon lost his balance, slamming his chin into the rocks but scrambling up immediately. He took two steps, then felt himself going down again, only half conscious that he was doing it on purpose. Someone was shooting at him from the edge of the crevice leading back to Winston’s hiding place.

He pushed himself into the smallest space possible, waiting for the shooting to let up. When it did, he reached up and let off a quick burst from his MP-5. When he raised his head to see where his enemy was, he spotted the barrel of the AK-47 emerging from behind two large boulders. Dixon ducked as a fresh round salvoed behind him.

It was only a single shot, poorly aimed. Dixon ripped a quick burst from his own gun. It was answered by another single round.

The Iraqi must be preserving ammo. Didn’t matter now. Dixon decided he would fire again, wait for the round, then leap up and run forward. The two shots had flailed well to the left; he would hug the opposite wall.

The helicopter engine revved on the other side of the hill.

Dixon squeezed the trigger, waited for the Iraqi to shoot. He began running. He saw the gun barrel and a figure; he fired, squeezing the trigger as hard as he could, the gun’s smooth burp pushing the metal stock against his rib.

But only for a second.

Then nothing.

The H&K had jammed. Dixon squeezed twice as the Iraqi rose. He threw the gun and himself forward to the ground as his enemy fired a single shot. The bullet wailed harmless overhead. As Dixon hit the dirt, he saw the man take aim again.

Dixon rolled over and grabbed for his pistol. He fired, saw the bullet hit.

Then he heard a sound like a steam locomotive whooshing from a tunnel. There was a loud bang, followed by a rattling, muffled explosion and a second loud whoosh.

The mountain across from him erupted in every direction with a tremendous rumble. Dixon stumbled forward, off guard and unable to protect himself. Something hit his head and he slid into a warm bed, every muscle relaxing, every ache and pain evaporating— as if a down-filled comforter had slid over his body and his head had nestled softly into a deep, deep pillow.

CHAPTER 77

The first missile nailed the door precisely two-thirds of the way up. Its warhead burst a hole through the thick steel as easily a screwdriver piercing a can of tuna.

The second missile wavered momentarily, just far enough behind the first to survive the initial explosion, but now confused, unsure where to go.

Electrons danced in its control module, feinting left, right, trying to compute whether the interference was a mere diversionary tactic, or if the world really had turned upside down.

Unsure, they took the course that seemed most logical to them, directing the Thikol rocket motor to keep on trucking, riding the straight and narrow.

Precisely 1.8 second later, the missile flew through the hole the first Maverick had created. As it did, it flew into a shower of light debris.

Close enough, decided the electrons, and the warhead exploded, precisely on target.

A-Bomb had managed to get his plane stable and ready to take the backup shot as the first Maverick hit. Staring at his small TVM screen, he saw the shadow of the second missile enter the cloud where the door of the bunker had been.

The explosion that followed rippled through a massive fissure in the rocks, a fault line planted a million years before by the churning of tectonic plates, aggravated by years of quarrying and amplified by the F-111 strike a few hours before. Sugar Mountain collapsed inward, hundreds of thousands of tons of rock and dirt burying the deadly toxins Saddam had counted on as his ultimate vengeance weapon.

“Looking ugly!” screamed A-Bomb as he whacked the stick and jostled the Maverick, hoping to unleash it on one of the few remaining targets.

CHAPTER 78

They were in the air, without radar but with the radio, at least enough of it to monitor the chaos at Sugar Mountain. Rosen hooked her arm around the restraints, her attention divided between the radio and the readings on the displays in front of her.

The situation over at Sugar Mountain was chaotic as hell, but she recognized Captain A-Bomb O’Rourke’s voice screaming through the chaos:

“I just shacked the APC with my last Maverick. That was kick-ass, Dog Man! You double-banged the fucker.”

The helicopter pilot turned to her, as if asking for an explanation.

“I think that’s good,” she told him.

The pilot of the other helicopter made a transmission to the Hogs, reporting some battle damage and wounded.

“Is Captain Dixon okay?” Rosen blurted over the com set.

For a second there was no answer. She knew she had keyed her mike because Slim Jim gave her a dirty look. That wasn’t enough to prevent her from asking again, though this time she dressed up the communication with a slightly more professional tone, adding “over” at the end of the transmission.

“Air Two this is Air One. Lieutenant Dixon is not on board.”

“Shit. Repeat?”

“Dixon is not on board.”

Rosen grabbed the sleeve of her helicopter pilot. “Go over to Sugar Mountain.”

“What?”

“One of our men is still on the ground down there.”

The pilot said nothing, but gave her two answers nevertheless. One answer was with his eyes, which summarized the helicopter’s precarious mechanical state, their low fuel reserves and lack of ammunition in a look that clearly asked, Do you think I’m out of my friggin’ mind?

The other was with his hands, which yanked the helo’s control column nearly out of its bolts and put the AH-6G on-line to the foaming clouds of smoke that marked the Iraqi stronghold.

CHAPTER 79

“Apache Two, this is Devil One. I copied that transmission. We will cover you to Sugar Mountain. Over.” Doberman let go of the mike key and ran his eyes quickly over the Hog’s indicators, with the notable exception of the panel detailing his dwindling fuel supply.

“Got your six,” said A-Bomb.

He was as short of fuel as Doberman was, but it was senseless ordering him home. The two Hogs cut tight angles in the air as they whacked back for Sugar Mountain.

“I’m thinking that must have been Dixon who nailed the missile launcher on the crater,” said A-Bomb. “That’s just the sort of thing a Hog driver’s gonna do, you know what I’m talking about?”

“We’ll buzz the crater and have the helo follow us in.” said Doberman, straining to see the quarry through the dust and smoke ahead. “Check for machine guns, if you can find the damn things. I can’t see shit.”

He took the Hog into a shallow but quick dive, moving down through four thousand feet as he accelerated. The smoke, rocks and wreckage divided into distinct clumps, several of which began to fire furiously at him from the periphery of the quarry. Doberman didn’t have a particularly good shot on any of them and decided to truck on past, concentrating on looking for Dixon. He figured A-Bomb would be more than happy to clean up for him.

Picking out something as small as a man from an airplane under any circumstances was extremely difficult. Picking out someone in the rocks while people are shooting at you was nearly impossible.

Doberman nonetheless pushed the Hog in, practically crawling as he scanned out the right side of his cockpit. Pulling off to the west, he took a slow, low orbit and watched as A-Bomb rode in on one of the gunners, letting the A-10A’s cannon eat up the dirt.

The cannon’s kick was so fierce, it slowed the plane down, nearly holding the Hog still as the bullets stuttered right and left. A-Bomb worked the rudders like pedals on a piano, playing the Death March for the unlucky slobs who had dared aim at him. And then he was beyond them, spinning off as Doberman put his Hog onto another of the heavy machine guns, pelting it with the Gatling’s big shells. Doberman winged through the haze and got a good view of the landslide that had crushed the storage bunker closed for good.

He couldn’t see Dixon. Nor could A-Bomb when to took a second run through. The machine-gun fire had stopped, at least. Doberman cleared the helicopter pilot in for a closer look.

As they watched the helo approach, their AWACS controller asked, semi-politely, if they had left the allied air forces and established one of their own.

He had some pointed questions about fuel consumption as well.

“Somebody’s feeding him information,” squawked A-Bomb over the short range radio.

Doberman told the AWACS they had the situation under control, then asked for the nearest tanker track, knowing before the coordinates came back that it was going to be tight.

One of the machine-guns started firing again as the helicopter pushed in. Doberman cursed, nearly pulling the wing off the plane as he spun the Hog to take the bastard out. The helo pilot yelled something he couldn’t understand.

There was a dead man at the lip of the crater.

Helo was taking fire.

Doberman leveled off briefly and flailed back in time to see the helicopter work its way toward the back of the mountain. His Hog was sucking dirt now, down under five hundred feet, slipping to three hundred. Doberman spotted something brown moving in the crevice formed by the rocks between them just southeast of the hill he’d just hit.

“Two bodies,” said the helo pilot, except it wasn’t the helo pilot, it was Rosen.

Something flashed in the corner of his eye.

“Watch the hilltop!” he shouted as he passed. He started to bank back and transmitted the warning again, unsure if he had even keyed the mike to send it.

There was a gunner flailing at the helicopter. A-Bomb saw him and was diving at the hill. The helicopter yanked away, bullets erupting from its side.

A-Bomb yelled.

The helicopter pilot yelled.

Rosen screamed.

And in the middle of it all the AWACS controller, his voice calm and ice cold, dished out a snap vector: Two MiGs were taking off from a nearby Iraqi airstrip.

“We’re hit but we’re okay,” announced the helicopter pilot.

“Was that Dixon?” Doberman asked.

“Those bodies aren’t moving,” said A-Bomb. “Dog, we got two pick-ups on the road in warp drive heading for Sugar Mountain. Got guns in the back, looks like.”

“OK, everybody get the hell out of here,” said Doberman. “Take the AWACS vector, A-Bomb.”

“What about you?”

Doberman hesitated for a second. The kid was down there somewhere; dead probably, but he couldn’t leave him.

Dixon wasn’t dead. No way. No.

Doberman’s Hog was almost out of fuel, two MiGs were heading this way, and more Iraqis were playing Rat Patrol. Dixon or no Dixon, he had to go.

There wasn’t anything he could do for the kid now. No amount of skill— or luck or superstition— would help him. Neither would pounding the Hog into the dirt.

“Yeah, I’m on it,” he told A-Bomb, slamming the Hog onto the get-away course.

CHAPTER 80

Technical Sergeant Rebecca Ann Rosen slid back in the hard seat of the McDonald Douglas AH-6G, letting her submachine gun fall between her legs. She had nailed the son of a bitch on the ridge who’d been firing at them; she saw the bastard fall backwards, saw the ripple of blood appear on his chest even as the helicopter had jerked away.

But she’d seen something else, something more gruesome and bitter. She’d seen Dixon’s body face-down in the rocks, dead.

She had no way of knowing that it was truly Dixon, except that she did. The man was wearing the brown Special Ops camo, unlike the Iraqis she’d seen. And besides, she knew it.

She picked up the submachine gun and folded it against her arms, resisting the temptation to smash out the front windshield of the helicopter in frustration, resisting the urge to scream.

“I think I can get us back to Fort Apache,” said the pilot next to her.

“I know you can,” she said softly, clutching the gun to her chest.

CHAPTER 81

“We got one chance,” A-Bomb told him. “And that’s Apache. We’re never ever making the border, let alone Al Jouf. We’ll be walking fifty miles, at least.”

Doberman didn’t argue. He’d already plotted the course himself.

“Got your six,” said A-Bomb when he told him he was changing their heading.

From a purely technical, specs-on-paper point of view, landing on the short strip at Fort Apache wasn’t an impossible proposition. The A-10As had been designed to operate from scratch bases close to the front lines. Apache was only slightly beyond what the plane’s designers had in mind when they started processing the blueprints, and within what a majority of them would have considered an acceptable margin of error, given the circumstances. The planes were essentially empty. The light load meant they had less momentum to slow down, and would less runway than normal. They had a good head wind, not the stiffest, but definitely another positive factor. And these two pilots were, without question, two of the finest Hog drivers in the world, able to wring things from the plane that challenged if not defied the laws of aeronautics.

But there was always a gap between theory and reality, a huge space inhabited by human beings and metal— a place where things went wrong as well as right, where the fact that you had been flying for tons more time than you were ever supposed to became more important than any theoretical wing-loading equation. It was a place where even the bullets that had missed the plane mattered, where the torque of the last screw in the final slot might be life or death.

And it was a place of luck, whether Doberman wanted to admit it or not, finally spotting the tiny squint of dirt in his windshield. It was smaller than the arms of the tiny silver cross on his sleeve.

“Damn short,” said A-Bomb.

“What’d you expect?”

“Hey, I got it, no problem,” replied A-Bomb. “I’m just saying it’s short, you know what I’m talking about?”

The Special Ops troops were standing by at the far end of the field, off the side in a small area that from here looked tinier than the main ring of a flea circus. They weren’t there to applaud. Because the landing strip was so short and narrow, the Hogs would have to land one at a time, the first plane hustling out of the way to let the second plane in.

Since their maneuvers at the battle scene had left Doberman with marginally more fuel than A-Bomb, he told him to land first.

“See you on the ground,” said A-Bomb, working into the first leg of the landing approach.

Doberman lifted his left hand and shook it, relieving some of the muscle stress.

At least that’s what he intended. It didn’t seem to do anything.

A-Bomb’s wheels hit at the very edge of the runway, the Hog nosing into a textbook-perfect, short-field landing. He ended with a good hundred feet to spare at the end.

Doberman practically whistled in admiration, trucking into position for his own landing.

If A-Bomb could do it, so could he.

Doberman was tired as hell, but the day was far from over. Taking off was going to be another test, assuming the Special Ops people found some jet fuel for them

Hogs could probably run on moonshine.

Doberman forced his mind back to the job at hand, slotting into a final approach as he set his flaps and prepared to duplicate A-Bomb’s perfect touchdown.

Except that the outer decelerons didn’t deploy.

He knew instantly he had a problem, tried quickly to reset, felt his heartbeat go from overwrought to ballistic. The plane fluttered and threatened to turn into a spinning football. He had hydraulics, had everything, but for some reason the decelerons stayed flat on the wing. His altitude bled off and speed dropped, though not nearly enough as he fought to control the approach.

No way was he landing without either smashing in a heap, or rolling off into the immense ditch at the not-so-far end of the cement. Doberman pulled off, his mind and hands whipping through the emergency-procedures checklist.

Nothing worked. The Hog’s decelerons— actually split ailerons located at the far end of each wing outside the two-segment flaps— were critical for short-field landings. The bottom part slide down to supplement the flaps while the upper portion popped up like air brakes. Besides increasing the wing area and helping the plane slow down, the decelerons helped control a certain innate tendency of the plane to roll.

Basically, they allowed the pilot to land on a dime without becoming a piece of lawn sculpture. Without them set right, Doberman needed a lot more runway than he had, and even then it might not be pretty.

Caul my ass, he thought, as he tried everything he could think of without result. I got the stinking goddamn crappiest luck of fucking Job in the whole damn Air Force.

Doberman worked into a new approach, pressured the stick, and pumped his rudder, trying to jink the damn things loose. But nada. He glanced at his fuel gauges. He was beyond dry.

Have to climb and bail. God, he’d break every bone in his body, not to mention the plane.

Shit!

So what would Tinman’s cross have done? Made the decelerons work? Put a tiger in his gas tank. It’d be as useless as his gun.

The gun.

As he began to pull up out of his approach, and idea occurred to him that was so wild, he knew not only that he had to try it, but that it would absolutely, positively work.

He put the nose back toward the runway and cleared his head, moving around the Hog cockpit as calmly as an insurance executive cleaning up his desk for the weekend. He was in a perfect position to land— damn decelerons still not deceleroning— speed still high, but otherwise right on the money. The plane nudged a bit, but he had her tight in his grip and she wasn’t going anywhere he didn’t want her to.

Doberman stared out the windshield. He could have been the insurance man, waiting at the twentieth floor of his high-rise, killing time at the window as he waited for the elevator to arrive. The edge of the runway came up big. His thumb danced over the elevator button.

Or rather, over the trigger of his gun.

Bing-bang-bam.

The Gatling’s heavy burst shook the Hog violently, and three things happened:

The Hog slowed down, as Doberman had hoped.

The Hog nearly dropped straight down onto the desert, which he hadn’t.

The Hog’s decelerons suddenly popped into action, helping him regain enough control to pull to a slightly cockeyed, burn-out-the-brakes, blow-the-tires, screech-to-a-smoky-halt stop a good fifty feet before the end of the strip.

As he popped the cockpit and threw off his helmet, Doberman looked up at the sky.

“I am one damn lucky son of a bitch!” he shouted.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” shouted A-Bomb, clambering up onto the wing. “You’re also a goddamn show-off with that gun.” He slapped the nose of the Hog in admiration. “Wish I’d thought of that.”